Goblets, Goblins, and Godparents
by Zathara001
Summary: Years after he left Britain for the United States, Harry Potter is forced to return when his name comes out of the Goblet of Fire. Sequel to "The Godmother."
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Please note that I follow Harry Potter book canon almost exclusively, with only minor forays into the movies, Pottermore, and fanon tropes. This story takes place in what would have been Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts, equivalent to season five of _NCIS: Los Angeles_ and, like the previous story in this series, assumes technology concurrent with season five.

As always, all rights in this work are hereby given to the copyright owners of _NCIS: Los Angeles_ and _Harry Potter_.

Hermione Granger's fourth year at Hogwarts was turning out to be only somewhat less dull than her third year. First year, of course, had seen a troll, a Cerberus, and a professor possessed by the spirit of Voldemort. Harry Potter had returned to the wizarding world that year, and just as abruptly left it again, though this time at least it was with people who cared for him and would give him a real home.

Second year had seen a student also possessed by the spirit of Voldemort. Thankfully, Ginny Weasley had managed to break free of her possession long enough to report to Madam Pomfrey and the professors had taken over from there, destroying the diary that had been the conduit for Voldemort's spirit.

Third year had been surprisingly uneventful, at least as far as Hermione was concerned. Draco Malfoy had had a brief run-in with a hippogriff, but nothing much had come of that.

Now, fourth year brought the return of something called the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione supposed that was exciting enough, at least for those students who would be selected to represent their schools in what sounded like a magical version of the Roman gladiatorial combats, only more dangerous.

For her, though, and likely for the other students, the tournament meant that she'd have to watch the three tasks set before the school champions, but not much else would change.

Ron Weasley, of course, lamented the loss of the Quidditch games - loudly and often. Hermione felt sorry for the seventh-year Quidditch players who wanted to try out to play professionally and now wouldn't have the opportunity to showcase their skill before they graduated, but otherwise didn't care. Quidditch lost whatever little appeal it had had for her when Harry Potter left Hogwarts and therefore wasn't playing for Gryffindor anymore.

The delegations from the other two schools competing in the tournament - Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic - arrived yesterday. Last night, the Goblet of Fire appeared in the Great Hall, and those students who wanted to compete were invited to put their names in the goblet for consideration.

Headmaster Dumbledore had put an Age Line around the goblet, so that only students of age would be considered. Naturally, Hermione thought, Fred and George Weasley - along with a few others - tried to get past the Age Line by using an aging potion, but they had been rebuffed rather forcefully. As though the headmaster hadn't thought of that. Hermione could only shake her head at their naive enthusiasm.

Now, at the Halloween Feast, the Goblet would select the competitors. Hermione tried to look like she was interested as Ron prattled on beside her.

"Be cool to enter, wouldn't it," he said between mouthfuls of food. "A thousand galleons prize money! Too bad Fred and George couldn't figure out how to get past the Age Line. I might've gone for it, myself."

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud at that. Ron hadn't applied himself in any of his classes, ever, so for him to think he had a chance in a contest that measured magical ability, intelligence, and courage… well. Hermione knew Ron had a ton of courage - not just because he was sorted into Gryffindor - but she'd never seen him display enough magical ability or intelligence to believe he'd have a chance in the tournament even if he was selected.

Finally, the plates cleared and Dumbledore stood. The room fell almost eerily quiet as he surveyed the assembled students.

"The Goblet is almost ready to make its selections," he said. "When each champion's name is called, please go into the antechamber -" he gestured to the door behind the staff table - "to receive your first instructions."

With that, he drew his wand and made a sweeping gesture with it. All the candles in the room, except those inside the carved pumpkins, went out, leaving the glowing Goblet of Fire the brightest thing in the now semi-darkened room.

The blue-white flames inside the Goblet suddenly flared red. Sparks flew from it, then a tongue of flame leapt up, resolving into a piece of parchment. Most of the students gasped.

_Fairly simple magic_, Hermione thought. _Why are they so impressed by it?_

Dumbledore caught the parchment and held it at arm's length so that he could read it by the light of the Goblet's flames, which had faded to blue-white once again.

"The champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore announced, "will be Viktor Krum."

"No surprise there!" Ron yelled.

Hermione winced at the volume, not just of Ron's yell but the cheering from the other students. Krum might already be a professional Quidditch player, but that was no reason to fawn all over him. She applauded politely as Krum rose from the Slytherin table to slouch toward Dumbledore and past him into the antechamber.

The hall fell quiet again, and once again the Goblet's flames burned red. Again a piece of parchment flew from it.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore announced, "will be Fleur Delacour."

Hermione looked toward the Ravenclaw table where the Beauxbatons students sat as well and swallowed back a groan when she recognized the student who rose to cross the hall and join Viktor Krum.

As if Ron's Quidditch crush being selected wasn't enough, now his veela crush had been, too. He was going to be insufferable - if only because he wouldn't know who to root for.

The Goblet's flames burned red a third time, and a third piece of parchment flew from it.

"The champion for Hogwarts," Dumbledore read, giving it the same inflection he had for the first two champions, "will be Cedric Diggory."

"No!" Ron said loudly, but Hermione doubted anyone but she heard him over the ruckus that erupted from the Hufflepuff table. She clapped harder and longer for Cedric than she had the other two - school pride counted for something, after all - as he went to the antechamber with the other champions.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real -"

He stopped speaking suddenly, and the reason was obvious, not just to Hermione, but to everyone in the room.

The Goblet's flames burned red a _fourth_ time, and a _fourth_ piece of parchment spat from it.

Dumbledore caught it, turned it so that he could read the name on it, and then just stared at it. While he stared at the parchment, the other students stared at him. Finally, he cleared his throat and read -

"_Harry Potter_."

This time, there was no applause, no cheering, just a low buzz of confusion. Hermione turned to Ron, intending to ask what he thought could have happened, but Ron's expression made her keep silent.

Ron's face had turned a dark purplish red, and he was scowling - though whether at the Goblet or the parchment Dumbledore still held, Hermione wasn't certain.

"Potter gets _everything_," Ron snarled, and Hermione flinched from the venom in his tone. But he hadn't been talking to her directly, so she turned away from him and pretended she hadn't heard.

At the staff table, Professor McGonagall was whispering madly to the headmaster, and the headmasters of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, as well as the other organizers of the tournament gathered there, appeared to be completely flummoxed.

It wasn't long before Dumbledore dismissed the students, and Hermione hurried back to her room, retrieved her mobile phone from her trunk, and then to the top of the Astronomy Tower.

The mobile phone was strictly for emergencies, according to her parents, and even if she wasn't sure they'd agree tonight's events were strictly an _emergency_, Harry deserved to hear about it from a friend before he heard about it from anyone else.

A quick Time Charm told her that it was nearly eight p.m. - which meant it would be noon in California where Harry was, and Hermione frowned. Noon on a Monday was right in the middle of Harry's school day, and his school didn't allow mobile phones in class.

Still, there were other people she could call.

G Callen usually enjoyed stakeouts. He and his partner, Sam Hanna, had worked together long enough that they'd gotten comfortable with each other's quirks and could talk or not, as they chose.

Today, though - today Sam had brought along a Hebrew version of Scrabble - Hebrew being one of two languages they had in common besides English. G didn't bother asking where he'd gotten it, just settled in to play. Five rounds in, though, he noticed a pattern.

"Everything okay at home? Kids doing all right in school?"

"Sure," Sam replied without looking up from his tiles. "Why?"

"Because your last three words were _sa-toom_, stupid, _tembel_, idiot, and _shovav_, someone who makes mischief."

"So? Those were the tiles I got."

Before G could pursue that question, his cell phone rang. He passed the board to Sam and dug the phone from his pocket. It displayed an international number - the U.K., if he remembered the country code correctly. Which meant it was probably one of Harry's friends, though he thought he had all of their numbers in his contacts.

With a frown, he answered. "Callen."

"Mr. Callen?" It was a female voice, definitely English accent. "It's Hermione Granger."

And why didn't he have her number as a contact? Had she gotten a new phone? That answer could wait until he found out, "Something wrong across the Pond?"

"It's about Harry - or rather, what someone's done to Harry."

G straightened in his seat at the mention of his ward's name. "Explain."

"Hogwarts is hosting the Triwizard Tournament," Hermione said. "Three schools competing, one champion selected for each school. Only a fourth name came out of the Goblet - Harry's."

As always, G appreciated brevity, but one detail demanded explanation. "Goblet?"

"The Goblet of Fire. Students who wanted to compete were given twenty-four hours to enter, then the Goblet made the final selections." She paused. "And unless Harry's in Scotland without telling me …."

"Someone entered _for _him," G concluded grimly.

"I'm sure the headmaster, or maybe Professor McGonagall, will get in touch, but I thought you should hear from a friend first." She paused again. "Whoever put Harry's name in …."

"Doesn't have motives as pure as the driven snow," G finished. "Right. Thanks for the heads up. I'm sure we'll see you sooner than summer vacation."

G ended the call and looked up to meet Sam's questioning look. He relayed what Hermione had told him, and Sam's expression darkened.

"I read about the Triwizard Tournament," Sam said. "They stopped holding them two hundred years ago. The body count got too high."

Which, G reflected with dark humor, was not the way to convince him to allow Harry to compete, even if he wanted to.

"We'll get Kensi and Deeks to take over here," G said. "I have to tell Harry, and then probably head back to Scotland."

"Not without Nell."

"Or Hetty." G agreed. Nell Jones, his girlfriend and co-guardian of Harry Potter, would not be pleased with this news. Neither would Harry's godmother, Hetty Lange.

"Go," Sam said. "I can keep up surveillance until Kensi and Deeks get here. Just keep me in the loop."

"Thanks, partner." With a moment's focus, G apparated away.


	2. Chapter 2

Even in late October the California sun burned inevitably overhead, brighter and warmer than any Harry Potter had seen in England or Scotland. Harry was grateful for the occasional shrubs and scrub trees, and not just for the respite, however minor, from the sun. They also offered concealment from his opponents - a squad of Army JROTC cadets led by his friend Aiden Hanna.

Harry led a similar squad of Navy JROTC cadets in a training exercise modeled after paintball. Instead of shooting guns loaded with blobs of paint, however, they were using a randomized Color-Changing Charm that would turn the target either red or purple. Anyone who turned red was considered killed in combat and out of the game. Anyone turning purple was wounded but could continue to fight. A lack of change meant the shot had missed and the target was uninjured.

Harry loved it.

He'd worried at first that the friendly Army/Navy rivalry would be less _friendly_ and more _rivalry_ \- much like the Gryffindor/Slytherin rivalry at Hogwarts. Thankfully, this rivalry really _was_ friendly, and confined mostly to trading good-natured insults ("Ground pounder!" "Squid!") off the training field and giving no quarter on the training field.

Right now, Harry squatted behind a bush of some kind - despite living in California almost three years, he hadn't learned all the local flora and fauna yet - waiting for his quarry to approach. He'd seen Aiden heading this direction and resolved to take out the other man quickly. Removing the Army leader might not end this particular engagement, but it would throw the Army team into a bit of disarray that he'd make sure the Navy team exploited.

The thought made him frown. Aiden hadn't been moving _that _slowly. He should've been here by -

Instinct made Harry throw himself to the side, breaking cover even as he dodged the charm flying his way.

Even before he got to his feet, he was returning fire, and Aiden's curse told him he'd scored.

Damn. Only purple.

Harry readied the spell again, only to hold off as a cannon blast sounded over the field, followed by an Amplify-charmed voice.

"This exercise is ended. Cadet Seaman Potter, report to the commandant. Repeat, this exercise is ended. Cadet Seaman Potter, report to the commandant."

Harry accepted Aiden's hand up - only then realizing that his hand, too, was purple.

"Mutual kill," Aiden said.

"Mutual injury," Harry corrected, grinning.

Aiden laughed. "You know how it would've ended. Mutual kill."

"True." Harry ended the charm on himself, then Aiden. "Better luck next time."

With a grin, he apparated to the gates of Keating Magical and Military Academy. That he _could_ apparate before he turned seventeen - even if it was restricted to school events and locations - was only one of the things he liked better about his American school than Hogwarts.

Hogwarts' curriculum seemed positively glacial compared to Keating's. Why did it take seven years of study to master transfiguration, when a year spent on the fundamental principles followed by a year of special applications covered the same material? And potions class was treated more like chemistry class or, perhaps, a cooking class - and, even better, Harry wasn't failing his class at Keating because a horrible bully of a professor couldn't get past Harry's resemblance to his father.

That he had a portkey that let him travel home for the weekends was simply the icing on the cake.

Now, though, he wondered why he'd been summoned from a field exercise. Keating's staff typically held field exercises with the enthusiasm that was reserved for Quidditch at Hogwarts.

After a quick cleaning charm to take care of everything not related to the color charm, Harry approached the gates. He spoke his name and the gates swung open.

When he reached the office of the Commandant of Cadets, he knocked briskly.

Colonel Mary Wainwright's voice came clearly through the door. "Enter."

Harry strode into the room and stood at attention before the commandant. "Cadet Seaman Potter, reporting as ordered, ma'am."

"At ease." Colonel Wainwright, a woman whose soft features belied the steel beneath, waved a hand toward Harry's left and Harry let his head turn that direction to more fully take in the figure he'd noticed on arrival.

Then he had to forcibly keep his expression neutral. "Callen? Is something wrong? Is Nell - or Hetty -?"

He broke off as Callen, out of place in jeans and a T-shirt, shook his head. "Everyone's fine. There's a problem at your former school."

Harry's throat tightened. There was only one person at Hogwarts that mattered enough to him that Callen would come personally to tell him there was a problem, and he forced out, "Hermione?"

"She's okay," Callen replied immediately. "No, it has to do with you - I'll brief you when we get back. Colonel?"

Wainwright might have been retired from the Army, but her tone was still sharp and her gaze even sharper. "Cadet Seaman, you will be finishing this year's coursework via independent study with Special Agents Callen and Hanna of NCIS. Do not expect that they will be less demanding than we are."

"I wouldn't, ma'am," Harry replied automatically even as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Good. Dismissed."

Harry managed to contain his questions until Callen had apparated him back to Los Angeles - specifically the NCIS Office of Special Projects. He'd never been there before, and he took in the mission-style building in covert glances as he followed Callen past what, based on Callen's descriptions, could only be the bullpen where Callen's team worked when they weren't in the field and up a flight of stairs before entering a room lined with computer monitors.

Nell was there, along with Eric Beale, Hetty, Sam Hanna, Kensi Blye, and Marty Deeks. The workstations scattered throughout the room were oddly vacant.

The doors slid shut behind them and Harry said, "Hi, everyone. What's going on, Callen?"

"A moment, Harry," Hetty said. "Mr. Callen, Ms. Jones - seal the room, please."

Harry watched as Callen and Nell enacted magical and electronic security measures, respectively, hoping his nervousness wasn't visible in his expression. What could possibly have happened to require this much security?

When he'd finished, Callen turned to Harry. "What do you know about the Triwizard Tournament?"

"It's a competition between three European magical schools, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts," Harry answered promptly, grateful for Hermione's detailed letters and even more detailed Internet chats. "It was cancelled a couple of centuries ago, but it's being revived this year and held at Hogwarts. Why are you asking?"

"Hermione called me earlier," Callen said. "It seems that your name came out of the Goblet of Fire as a competitor."

Harry didn't bother trying to conceal his surprise - or his dismay. "What? How's that even possible?"

"An excellent question," Hetty said, "and one this team will be investigating. However, we cannot overlook the obvious during that investigation."

"The obvious?" Harry repeated with a frown - and then a groan.

"I think he's got it," Sam murmured to Callen.

"I think so, too," Callen agreed. "But let's make sure. Lay it out for us, Harry."

Harry blew out a breath. "The Triwizard Tournament was cancelled because too many competitors died - either during the contest or of complications afterward. If it's being revived, and I was chosen to compete even though I didn't enter, the only conclusion is that someone wants me hurt or dead as a result. But that's stupid, because I didn't enter, so why would I compete? Why would I even show up?"

"Because it's a binding contract," Nell said gently. "Meaning you have to compete or risk losing your magic."

"But -" Harry broke off before he could formulate a coherent thought. He'd lived the first eleven years of his life unaware of magic, not using it. How was it that after only three years of knowing about magic, using it, the prospect of losing it seemed so grim?

"We will be confirming that," Hetty said, as though Harry hadn't floundered. "Ms. Jones, Mr. Beale - that's your department. Find out everything you can about this tournament, both historically and currently. If there is a contract, I want to see it, and I want the best attorneys we can find to review it, letter by letter."

"On it," Eric replied. Nell just nodded.

"Mr. Callen and Mr. Hanna will escort Harry to Hogwarts," Hetty continued, "to find out exactly what is expected of you. Mr. Deeks, Ms. Blye - you will find out everything you can about anyone involved in resurrecting this farce of a tournament. If Harry does have to compete, whoever is responsible will feel our wrath."

At some signal Harry couldn't pick out, Nell and Callen deactivated the security measures, and Hetty strode from the room. Only then did Harry let out a long breath.

"She's … scary, when she gets like this," he muttered.

"She's scary any time. She's absolutely terrifying when she gets like this," Deeks corrected while the others let out chuckles that were more for stress relief than actual amusement.

"Harry?" Nell's soft question drew his attention. "How are you?"

How was he supposed to answer that question? Harry just stared at her, helplessly, and then he was in her arms. He didn't cry, he wouldn't cry, but his arms went around her as he accepted the comfort she offered.

Then Callen was hugging him, too, and Harry couldn't help stiffening in surprise. Callen was never the most demonstrative man, but the three of them had become a family, and Harry supposed it was only right that Callen support him physically, too.

But he only indulged for a moment. Callen must have sensed something shift in Harry's mood, because he straightened away and turned to the rest of the team.

"All right, you heard Hetty. Meet back here in an hour and we'll portkey to London," Callen said. "Sam, Harry, and I will apparate to Hogwarts from there. Eric, get us rooms at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, please."

"It'll be past midnight by the time you get there," Nell pointed out.

"Which is why we'll take a few hours to sleep off the jet lag before heading to Hogwarts in the morning," Sam said as though it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world.

"What Sam said." Callen grinned. "We'll conference tomorrow night at eight, Scottish time, and see what we've all found out."


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Albus Dumbledore was worried.

As if Harry Potter's name somehow coming out of the Goblet of Fire as a Triwizard competitor wasn't bad enough, Albus hadn't been able to find the boy to tell him that he must compete.

Harry must compete or lose his magic, and allowing the boy to lose his magic wasn't an option - not for Harry, not for the rest of the world. Harry was the only hope of defeating Voldemort once and for all.

And Albus couldn't find him.

It had been almost twenty-four hours since Harry's name came out of the Goblet, and Albus _couldn't find him._

His first thought was to send Fawkes to Sirius Black. Black might not have followed Harry out of the country, but he was still the boy's godfather and therefore should have some idea where he was. Black's reply had come back quickly in the form of a suggestion that Albus attempt a biological improbability.

After that rather vulgar moment, Albus had tried every scrying magic known, then contacted all of the seers he knew or even heard of, even resorted to asking after the boy at Gringotts. The less said about the goblins' reaction to that question, the better.

The only hint he'd gotten from any of his sources came from a Gypsy fortune-teller in Hogsmeade. The woman - a hundred and ten if she was a day - had looked into her crystal ball, frowned, and then laughed.

When Albus demanded an explanation, all she said was, "Your magic can't find him."

Albus had to bite back a growl. He _knew_ his magic wasn't finding Harry. He only consulted the Gypsy as a last resort, and even that had failed.

Now, as he watched the students gathering for dinner, including the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, Albus could only pray to whatever gods might be listening that, somehow, Harry Potter would hear about the tournament, and that he must compete. It was the only outcome Albus could consider.

His gaze drifted toward Harry's former house table. The Gryffindors were the only ones Harry had had time to become friends with before his new guardian whisked him out of Hogwarts and into anonymity.

_That's what you wanted for him, all those years ago,_ his subconscious told him. And while that was true, Albus hadn't wanted Harry hidden from himself.

Shaking that thought away, Albus scanned the Gryffindor table once again. The first thing he'd done to try to find Harry was speak to Ronald Weasley, who'd been Harry's friend while he was at Hogwarts. Surely friends knew where their friends were?

But Mr. Weasley hadn't known - Albus admitted to a discreet bit of legilimency to confirm the boy's denials - and, worse, hadn't seemed to care. Apparently, their friendship hadn't been what Albus had believed, so now he sought out anyone else who might have an idea where Harry was.

Hm. Ms. Granger had shared an adventure with both Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter, and she was muggle-born as well. Perhaps she had some idea -

Before Albus could finish that thought, the doors to the Great Hall swung open. Albus was on his feet quickly with his wand drawn, as were Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick to either side of him.

He felt his eyes widen as he recognized one of their visitors: Harry's new guardian - Callen, the man's name was - striding into the Great Hall, followed by a rather large black man with a shaved head, and beside him -

Albus clamped down on the relief that swept through him. Beside the black man was _Harry Potter_. Albus didn't know how he'd known about the tournament, and right now he didn't care.

He lowered his wand. "Harry, my boy -"

"Is in no sense of the word _yours_," Callen cut in. "You are correct, though, that he's a minor child and therefore a _boy _\- although at fourteen, I'm thinking _young man_ is more appropriate."

Albus blinked at the man's harsh tone, but recovered quickly. "I was merely greeting a former student. It is a pleasure to see you at Hogwarts again, Harry."

"I can't say it's a pleasure to be back, sir, under the circumstances." Harry's response was as even as his tone was measured, but the hard look in his eyes - and what had happened to the boy's glasses? - belied them both. Albus blinked, looked again at Harry, and swallowed when he realized that the scar on the boy's forehead that had once been angry and red as though barely healed was now faded to a thin, barely discernible, white line. What had happened to it?

There would be time for those questions later. Albus cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should take this someplace more private."

Callen gave him a baleful look. "Was the Goblet of Fire ceremony someplace more private? No? Then this will do."

He turned to face the assembled students. "I'm G Callen. Some of you may remember me as your defense teacher for half a term three years ago. I'm also Harry Potter's guardian, and in that capacity, I ask you to give Harry your attention for a moment."

Albus watched as Harry stepped forward, turning so that he stood beside Callen - which meant Albus couldn't see his face as he spoke. He heard Harry's voice clearly, though.

"My name is Harry Potter," he said. "I just want you all to know that I did not, knowingly or willingly, enter, attempt to enter, or ask or persuade anyone to enter my name to be considered for the Triwizard Tournament. I have no interest in competing in the tournament, and I will only compete to the extent that may be required by the so-called magical contract some believe binds me. I'm willing to swear an Unbreakable Vow to that effect."

Albus had started to sit, but at that last sentence, he rose again. "Harry, my - Mr. Potter. Unbreakable Vows are quite serious things."

Harry turned to face him, and Albus almost flinched at the intensity in the boy's gaze. "I am quite serious about this, Headmaster. I had nothing to do with entering this competition, and I don't want there to be any doubt about that."

"And now that's out of the way," Callen put in before Albus could say anything else, "what time tomorrow is best to discuss this further, Headmaster?"

_Well played, Mr. Callen. Or I suppose that should be, Agent Callen?_ Albus had to admire the skill with which Callen had gotten what he wanted - Harry's public declaration - and was now giving Albus what he wanted - a private discussion. Out of respect if nothing else, Albus merely offered a bland smile.

"Shall we say ten tomorrow morning?" Albus asked.

"That'll do." Callen nodded to him, then offered a wave to the students. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner."

Then Callen, Harry, and the big black man were gone, the doors to the Great Hall swinging shut behind them.

Albus sank back into his chair as the hall erupted in conversation. The Triwizard Tournament was turning out to be more than he'd expected.

It wasn't until they were clear of the Hogwarts wards and halfway down the path to Hogsmeade that Callen spoke.

"How're you doing, Harry?"

Harry considered that question for several steps, knowing that neither Callen nor Sam would pressure him for an answer. Instead, they wanted his honest reaction, whatever that was.

Finally, he said, "I would've liked to have talked to Hermione, say thanks for the heads up. But being back at Hogwarts?" Harry could only shrug. "It's the first magical place I knew, the first place that felt like home. But it's not the _only_ one of either of those places."

"You'll see Hermione on the first Hogsmeade weekend," Callen said, and it was a promise. Then his attention shifted to their companion. "Sam?"

And that, Harry mused, was one reason they made such good partners - that absolute trust that the other was doing what he was supposed to. Or maybe it was the partnership that built the trust? He'd have to ask them, one day.

"The only one of the staff that makes me twitchy is the one with the artificial eye," Sam said, and that made Harry blink up at him.

"Not Snape?" he asked.

"Which one's Snape?" Sam countered.

"All in black, pasty skin, greasy black hair."

"He glared at you, but I don't think he's behind getting your name in the Goblet," Sam said. Before Harry could ask, he added, "Instinct. You work undercover for years, you'll develop it, too."

Harry let that slide in favor of asking, "So what are we doing tomorrow? And _don't_ say the same thing we do every night."

Callen quirked a grin while Sam actually chuckled.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Callen assured him. "Tomorrow, I meet with Dumbledore and ask the hard questions."

"And you and I," Sam said, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder, "will work on your Arithmancy and Geometry lessons."

Harry groaned, and Sam gave his shoulder a shake.

"I know," Harry said. "Hogwarts may have excused its Triwizard competitor from exams, but Keating didn't."

"Got it in one," Callen replied. "But look at it this way. You have a mathlete as a private tutor."

Sam groaned. "Junior Math Olympian." Then he glared at G. "You know that. You just say _mathlete_ to annoy me. Why do I let you annoy me?"

"That," Callen said, "is a very good question."

Harry chuckled to himself, falling back to let his almost-father and almost-uncle lead the way into Hogsmeade.

G paused at the gargoyle guarding the passage to Dumbledore's office, murmuring, "Nell, you there?"

"Read you five by five," Nell replied immediately, her voice familiar and welcome through his earbud. "We're good to go on this end."

"Confirm when you hear Dumbledore, too."

"Roger that."

He gave his name and purpose to the gargoyle and, after a moment, the passage opened to let him through.

Dumbledore's office was just as G remembered it - comforting in its clutter, despite the rather ostentatious desk and chair on a dais that overlooked the rest of the room. Not to mention the phoenix on a perch in the far corner.

He figured Dumbledore would understand if he went to greet the phoenix first. If not - well, G knew which one he'd rather have angry at him.

So he approached the phoenix with respect, but not subservience, holding the creature's gaze while he nodded a greeting.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore's voice came from over G's shoulder. "I believe Fawkes had just had a burning day when you were here last."

"Got you and Dumbledore." Nell's voice came through his earbud once again. They'd worked together long enough that she knew he couldn't respond directly. Instead, he turned to Dumbledore.

"Your phoenix is named for a fox?" It wasn't the most unusual name G had ever heard of for a magical creature, but that a phoenix would allow itself to be named for a common animal was … definitely unusual.

"Not fox as in the animal," Dumbledore said. "Fawkes as in the name."

G flicked a glance back toward the phoenix. "Did you choose the name, or did he?"

Dumbledore looked surprised at the question. "I did. Why?"

With a nod to the phoenix, G turned back toward the headmaster. "Remember, remember, the fifth of November. Gunpowder, treason, and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot."

Dumbledore blinked, the only visible sign of his surprise. "I understood you're an American."

"Not ignorant, though." G took a seat opposite the headmaster's desk. "Interesting that you named a phoenix for a failed regicide attempt."

"I merely like the sound of it," Dumbledore replied, his tone as bland as his expression.

G would've blown that off, but he remembered Harry's description of what Dumbledore had said at the arrival feast when Harry was eleven. "I'd like to say a few words, and here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Yes, G decided, such a man could've easily simply liked the name Fawkes. Still, it was a choice that G wouldn't forget.

G watched Dumbledore take a seat behind his desk and just as the other man was getting comfortable, he said, "So how is it that an underage wizard who doesn't even attend this school got entered into a tournament that was ended centuries ago because the body count got too high?"

"Ah." Dumbledore looked momentarily nonplussed, but he recovered quickly. "Alastor believes someone used a Confundus Charm on the goblet, and then put Harry's name in as a competitor for a fictional fourth school."

"I see." G counted to ten in seven different languages before he met Dumbledore's gaze again. "What protections were on the goblet to prevent cheating?"

"I put an Age Line around it, to prevent anyone underage from entering."

G waited, but … "That's all?"

"It seemed sufficient at the time."

"Of course it did," Nell grumbled in G's ear. "Just like a Cerberus was sufficient to guard the Philosopher's Stone."

G found himself resolving to learn more languages - or at least how to count to ten in them. When he'd tamped down his anger sufficiently, he said, "Leaving that aside for now - _just_ for now - tell me about this supposedly binding contract."

"It binds the school champions to compete or lose their magic."

"So I've heard, but that doesn't tell me what the contract actually says. I want a copy of it."

Dumbledore blinked. "A … copy?"

"A copy. Oral contracts aren't worth the paper they're written on. Sorry - the parchment they're written on."

Dumbledore frowned at G over his half-moon glasses. "But - oral contracts aren't written down at all."

"Precisely the point." G offered the other man a grin. "So - a copy?"

"I don't know that I have a copy," Dumbledore said.

It was G's turn to frown. "Then who does? The tournament organizers?"

Dumbledore jumped on that. "Yes, I'm certain they would. You should speak to Barty Crouch or Ludo Bagman. They're the Ministry delegates to the organizing committee."

"Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman," Nell's murmur came through G's earbud. "On it."

"Do you know where I can find them?" G asked.

"They are both staying here at Hogwarts for the duration of the tournament, as are, of course, the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations."

"If you'll show me to their rooms, I'll speak with them right away."

"Of course, of course." Dumbledore rose and came from behind his desk.

As he would have passed, G held out one hand to stop him.

Dumbledore looked from G's hand to his face. "Threats, Agent Callen?"

"More like a warning," G said. "The FBMI and MACUSA have already been alerted."

"Don't you think that's overkill?" Dumbledore asked. "It's a school competition."

"A _deadly _competition that has seen an American citizen -" Dumbledore actually blinked in shock at those words, and G bit back a grin - "entered against his will. We will find out who entered him, and why, and we will bring them to justice for it."

"Neither MACUSA nor the FBMI have any jurisdiction here."

"True," G agreed. "But Hetty's having tea with Her Majesty again. At least one of us will be a specially appointed Crown Prosecutor before they finish the scones. And I've contacted the ICW, too, so I expect my commission to be reactivated."

Dumbledore did not look pleased with that information, but his tone was even enough when he said, "The Ministry will, of course, look into this -"

"Will they?" G broke in. "Because I haven't seen any indication that _anyone_ is treating this for what it is - not the Ministry, not the tournament organizers, and certainly not you."

Dumbledore frowned. "I don't like your tone, Mr. Callen."

"I don't care," G said. "We were willing to let your … careless handling of James and Lily Potter's deaths go because we took Harry to America. Now he's brought back here against his will, and you're involved in that somehow, too."

"If you're implying I had anything to do with his name coming out of the Goblet of Fire -"

"You did," G told him. "If only through your carelessness - _again_ \- in securing it."

"No one is perfect, Mr. Callen," Dumbledore said.

"I'm not expecting perfection," G countered. "I am suggesting that perhaps you should slow down a bit."

"Slow down?" Dumbledore repeated, obviously not following G's meaning. "I - don't understand."

"You're Supreme Mugwump of the ICW," G said. "And Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. And headmaster here. That amount of stress can't be good for your health."

"I am perfectly healthy."

G acknowledged the point with a nod. "Still - at your age, most people are cutting back their commitments. Especially when their judgment appears to be impaired."

"My judgment is not impaired!"

"Facts in evidence suggest otherwise. Starting with leaving a toddler on a doorstep on a night that wasn't much above freezing." G wanted to go for his SIG. Or a wand - not that he used a wand, but the urge was there nonetheless. Instead, he shoved his hand into his jeans pocket instead of taking Dumbledore down with a solid right hook.

"We were willing to let that go, last time," he said, holding Dumbledore's gaze with his own. "We won't be as charitable this time."


	4. Chapter 4

Portkey travel was only somewhat better than jet travel, Harry decided as he stumbled into the common room of the Three Broomsticks. He'd slept well the night before, but this morning his body was telling him it wasn't nearly enough.

_It has to be_, he told himself, and glanced around the room.

Sam Hanna sat at a table against the far wall, a cup of coffee and the remains of a full Scottish breakfast on the table in front of him, and a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ spread open to one side.

"Look who's awake," Sam said without looking up from the _Prophet_. "As soon as you finish breakfast, we'll get started."

Harry slid into a seat opposite him and groaned. "Arithmancy and geometry, right?"

"Wrong."

Harry blinked. "Wrong?"

"Wrong," Sam repeated. "That's on the agenda, but first we're going to research the previous Triwizard Tournaments and find out what kinds of things you'll actually have to do. You can't practice for the unknown."

Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and added three lumps of sugar. Ignoring Sam's frown at the amount, he took a long swallow. When he finally felt like he could have a real conversation, he met Sam's gaze.

"You think I'll have to compete," he said flatly.

"Yes."

Harry loved Sam's bluntness most of the time. Today, he couldn't claim that he loved it, exactly, but nevertheless he appreciated not having to beat around the bush.

"Why?"

"Because we're here," Sam said. "If there had been any way for you not to compete, they would've told us last night at Hogwarts, and we'd already be back in Los Angeles."

"That - makes a horrible amount of sense," Harry said. A full Scottish appeared in front of him, and he called a thanks to whoever had arranged it. Two bites of egg and sausage later, Harry spoke without looking up from his plate. "Hermione's really good at research."

"And she hasn't been exempted from exams for the year. I'm not saying we won't see her, even include her, but Callen, Nell, and I are your primary support system."

Harry nodded an acknowledgment, unwilling to speak around the bacon he was chewing.

"We're going to train," Sam said, his expression grave, "and train hard. We'll cover general conditioning and practice things that previous tournaments have included."

Harry sighed silently, but said only, "Okay. Where?"

"That's the challenge," Sam said. "We can rent a house in Hogsmeade - or some other magical location - for spell practice and flying practice. The challenge is finding a place to continue your school training."

"But - I'm being home-schooled this year," Harry said.

"You still need to be ready for _next_ year."

Harry winced. He hadn't thought about that aspect of it. Still, "Why's finding a place for that a challenge?"

"Because while there are clubs for shooting rifles, handguns are illegal in the UK - with the exception of Northern Ireland," Sam said. He took a swallow of coffee and when he set his cup down, his expression was thoughtful. "Hetty might be able to arrange something at one of the American-run Royal Air Force bases here. But if not, we'll have to figure something else out."

Harry shook his head. "I might've known - the tournament sounds like it makes the year easier, but it really makes it harder."

Sam chuckled. "It's going to be tough, but I know you can do it."

"The only easy day was yesterday." Harry repeated the mantra he'd heard from Sam and Aiden both over the years.

"Hoo-rah," Sam said with a smile.

It was dinnertime before G made it back to the Three Broomsticks. Sam and Harry were already seated at a table, so he crossed the dining area and collapsed into a chair opposite them, fully trusting Sam to keep an eye on the parts of the room he couldn't see.

"You look tired, G."

"That's one word for it," G admitted. He looked over his shoulder, waving a hand to catch a server's attention before pointing at Sam's drink and gesturing for another. Then he turned back to Sam and Harry. "The good news is, Sirius already has solicitors on the job. Vicious ones, too, if what he says is true."

"What's the bad news?" Sam asked.

"Nobody's got a copy of the contract, and the wording people use talking about it keeps changing."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean, changing?"

"I mean changing," G replied. "As in, not consistent. Dumbledore said the _placing_ of your name in the goblet constitutes the binding magical contract. Bartemius Crouch, the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, says that the rules say that those people whose names _come out_ of the goblet are bound to compete."

"Two different things," Sam said, sitting back as G's drink arrived. "And what do you mean, nobody's got a copy of the contract?"

G took a long swallow, only mildly surprised to find that Sam was drinking butterbeer, and set his mug down before answering. "I have the current rules, as negotiated by the ministries of the three participating schools, but nobody's got the original rules. And since the current rules don't necessarily _negate_ the prior rules, just amend them, we need the original rules to know which wording is correct. Or we need the current binding contract."

"And _nobody_ has it?" Sam asked again, his tone clearly disbelieving.

"Sirius asked his solicitors for a copy. They said they'll request one, but they had no idea when or if it would come through. I spoke to Griphook at Gringotts London, and the goblins have no records of ever having it. I checked the British, French, and Bulgarian Ministry archives. I went to the _Daily Prophet_ morgue, and in addition to Crouch and Bagman - he's head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports - I talked to the foreign school heads. None of them have a copy of the contract, either."

"Unbelievable," Sam murmured, and for long moments the three were quiet.

"I had an owl from Hermione earlier," Harry said into the silence. "She said that Professor Moody suggested somebody must have confounded the goblet to make it forget that only three schools were participating. Then they put my name in using a made-up school name, and … well."

"Dumbledore said the same." G frowned. "I don't remember a Professor Moody from your first year."

"DADA," Harry said. "They go through DADA professors like clockwork - every year, there's someone new. Or that's what Hermione says."

G shared a grin with Sam, but chose not to tease the younger man. "And why was this Moody talking about it at all?"

"He mentioned it in class, when some of the students -" Harry broke off and looked away, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

"When some of the students _what_, Harry?" G prodded.

"Some of them - well, almost all of them, really - think _I_ put my name in the goblet, that I cheated somehow."

G wished Nell were here. She was much better at dealing with a teenage boy's mood swings than he was. As it was, all G could say was, "Even after your announcement last night?"

Harry nodded.

"Hermione?" G prompted.

"Of course not! It seems like she's the only one that believes me."

G smiled at that. In all honesty, he hadn't expected Harry's friendship with Hermione to survive when Harry moved to the States. Sure, he'd made sure they had compatible computer systems for keeping in touch, but long-distance relationships of any kind were stressful. Add their youth to that relationship, and G had believed they'd chat once or twice and then drift apart.

But no, they still spoke almost every weekend and exchanged letters via snail mail, and alternated international visits during the summers. G may not have expected it, but he was happy to pay for those visits as long as Harry was willing to make them.

"I did get a schedule," G began, but broke off as Sam straightened in his chair.

"Incoming," Sam murmured, and G shifted position to better face whoever approached.

He blinked when he saw the woman coming toward him. She appeared to be close to Hetty's age - not that G would ever accuse Hetty of being old - with piercing brown eyes and graying hair. A brightly patterned shawl covered her head and shoulders, beneath which were a blouse and skirt rather than the robes British wizards preferred.

_One of mine,_ G concluded. That was confirmed when she spoke.

"No one knew you were coming, my lord."

"I didn't either, until yesterday," G replied. "Join us, please."

She sat, skimming her glance over all three of them. "I am Rauni."

"A pleasure, Rauni," G replied. "My partner, Sam Hanna, and my ward, Harry Potter. What brings you here tonight?"

"Your ward," Rauni replied.

"Me?" Harry stared at her. "How could I possibly bring you here?"

"A few days ago, the headmaster of Hogwarts asked me to try to find you," Rauni replied. "He didn't say why."

"What did you tell him?" G asked.

"That I couldn't find him." Then Rauni smiled. "Which was simply the truth. You have hidden him well, my lord."

G nodded in acknowledgment, but he still had to know, "Have you heard anything else about Harry?"

"Only what is printed in the _Prophet_ and the _Quibbler_," Rauni answered. "His name came out of the Goblet of Fire, so he will be competing in the Triwizard Tournament."

"The strangely misnamed Triwizard Tournament," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Pass the word," G told Rauni. "I want to know anything you hear about Harry or the tournament that doesn't make it into the papers."

Rauni nodded, the closest, G knew, that she would ever come to a bow when there were gadje around. "I will. You are staying here?"

"For now," G said. "If that changes, I'll let you know. You're staying in Hogsmeade?"

"I set up a table when the weather's good."

Sam snorted. "It's Scotland. The weather's never _good_."

"It's good enough," Rauni replied. She rose. "My lord."

"Oh, and Rauni?" G waited for her to meet his gaze. "Harry's more than my ward. He's my heir."

"Your heir, my lord?" Rauni's eyes flicked between them, and there was honest curiosity in her tone, rather than malice.

"My heir."

Rauni faced Harry directly and offered a solemn nod. "Sir."

G bit back a grin at Harry's wide-eyed returning nod. He supposed he really should have mentioned that to Harry before making it public, but needs must.

"Thank you, Rauni. Your help is appreciated." G watched her get safely out of the Three Broomsticks before turning his attention back to his companions and the meal that Sam had apparently ordered without his knowing.

"Your heir?" Harry said.

"If you want." G reached for his butterbeer. "I'd meant to talk to you about it next summer and, if you agree, I'll adopt you formally and ritually."

"Oh." Harry didn't appear to know what to make of that, and G shot a glance at Sam.

Sam took the hint. "You said you got a schedule?"

"Right." G pulled his phone from his pocket and called up the picture he'd taken of the parchment Crouch had shown him. "Weighing of the wands, November 13. First task, November 24. Yule Ball, December 25. Second task, February 24. Third task, June 24."

"That's … remarkably spread out," Sam observed. "I wonder why?"

G started to answer, but Harry's expression stopped him. "Harry?"

"The Yule Ball's on _Christmas Day?_ I have to spend Christmas away from you?"

"That's something we should discuss," G said. "You could, if you want, stay in the States most of the time, only coming over here for required events."

"Is the Yule Ball a required event?" Harry asked.

"It could be," G said. "But even if it's not - wouldn't you want to spend some time with Hermione?"

Harry stared at him for a long moment before his eyes widened. "You mean, ask her to the ball?"

"Who else would you ask?" Sam said.

Harry's brows drew together. "Kamran?"

"I think she's too young," G said. "Professor McGonagall said that only third years and older can attend, and third years only by invitation of an older student. That's, what, thirteen? Kamran's ten."

"C'mon, Harry. You know you like Hermione." Sam's tone held a teasing note.

"I do. I just don't know how to dance." Harry's last words were barely a whisper.

"We can fix that," G said. "And it would only be Christmas night that you'd be away from us."

Harry thought for a long moment. "It's two weeks until the - what did you call it? The wand-thingy?"

"The weighing of the wands," G said.

"Right, thanks. And Hermione said this weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend. Can we stay through the weighing of the wands?" Harry asked. "That would give me a chance to see Hermione and ask her to the ball."

"Look who suddenly thinks going to the ball is a good idea," Sam said, stage-whispering to G.

Harry flushed again, and focused on G when he asked, "Do we know what the tasks are?"

"No." And that bothered G more than almost anything else about this whole thing. Dumbledore had told him the contestants were exempted from end-of-year tests so that they could focus on preparing for the tasks. But how do you prepare for the unknown?

"Nothing?" Harry's almost desperate question tore G from his reverie.

"The first task is a test of daring and courage," G said. "And you'll face it armed with only your wand. You'll receive more information about the second task when the first task is completed. And none of your teachers are permitted to help you prepare."

"How about parents and friends?" Sam asked.

"No restrictions, other than the teachers," G said. "And, frankly, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have helping me prepare for the unknown than Sam."

"And the rest of the team," Sam said. "We'll get you through this, Harry. I promise."

Hermione was almost finished with breakfast when an owl swooped in and landed in front of her. A flicker of hope died immediately when she saw that the owl wasn't Hedwig, Harry's distinctive snowy owl.

Still, this tawny owl had a message for her, and Hermione removed the envelope carefully. A bit of bacon later, and the owl soared away.

"Is that from your parents?" Lavender Brown asked. "I don't think I've seen that owl before."

"No," Hermione answered as she examined the envelope. "They don't have an owl, yet. I don't recognize the handwriting - but it's simple block letters, so it could be from anyone."

"Well?" Lavender said. "Open it and find out just which _anyone_ it's from."

She should open it. She really should. But there was something exciting about the anticipation that made Hermione want to delay opening the envelope as long as she could - which, with Lavender sitting across from her and Parvati Patil beside Lavender, wouldn't be very long.

Resolutely, she opened the envelope and scanned the note contained within.

_Hermione,_

_Can we get together this weekend in Hogsmeade? We're staying at the Broomsticks, if you want to meet there. If you'd rather meet somewhere else, let me know._

_Looking forward to catching up in person,_

_Harry._

Hermione smiled.

"Wow," Lavender said. "I don't think I've ever seen you smile like that before. Good news?"

"I have a date for Hogsmeade," Hermione said.

If Harry meant it like a _date_ date, she corrected herself. He hadn't said specifically, and the wording he'd chosen could be read either way.

"Oooh," Lavender said knowingly. "A date. Anyone we know?"

Hermione answered automatically. "Harry."

"Harry?" Lavender repeated. "As in Harry Potter, who walked in here a couple of nights ago like he owned the place? That Harry?"

"Yes, that Harry."

"I didn't know you'd kept in touch after he left Hogwarts."

"Off and on," Hermione answered, unwilling to go into more detail with one of the biggest gossips in her year. "It'll be good to catch up."

And maybe, just maybe, Harry would ask her to the Yule Ball.


	5. Chapter 5

That Saturday morning, Hermione all but ran to Hogsmeade, her quick steps leaving Ron Weasley and his sister, Ginny, who was a year behind them, struggling to catch up.

"Wait up, Hermione!" Ron called. "He's my friend, too, you know."

Those were about the only words that could have made Hermione pause, and she did. More, she whirled on the young man - overgrown boy, really - and jabbed a forefinger at him, making him jump back a step.

"Really?" she demanded. "How many letters have you sent him?"

Ron looked down, and his cheeks flushed, though that might have been a result of the chilly morning air. "It's too far for owls," he muttered.

"I know very well your parents know how to use the Royal Mail," Hermione said. "And I offered to send a letter with mine if you ever asked me to."

"You mean -" Ginny said, her eyes wide and her voice more timid than a Weasley's voice ever ought to be, "you mean Ron could've been pen friends with Harry Potter?"

"He could've been Harry's friend, full stop." Hermione gentled her tone when she spoke to the younger girl. Ginny might never fully recover from the ordeal of her first year, but Hermione could certainly sympathize. After all, it was the ordeal she'd gone through in _her_ first year that was partly responsible for Harry leaving Britain for America.

"You - you -" Ginny seemed at a loss for words, and after a moment's struggle, she took the book she was holding and whacked her brother's shoulder with it. "How could you?"

"Ow! Ginny -" Ron began, but Ginny whacked him again. She wasn't hitting him hard enough to _really_ hurt, Hermione thought, but certainly hard enough to annoy him.

"How could you?" Ginny demanded again, punctuating the question with another whack. "How can I ask him for his autograph when you've been such a - a - such a -"

"Prat?" Hermione suggested, biting back a smile.

"Berk!" Another whack. "Honestly, Ron -"

Hermione took the opportunity to continue her trek to Hogsmeade. The row between the Weasley siblings would distract them both long enough, she hoped, for her reunion with Harry to be relatively private.

At this hour on a Saturday morning, the Three Broomsticks was doing a brisk breakfast business, which normally meant Hermione would have to search through the crowd for her friend. This morning, however, she saw Sam Hanna sitting at a far table.

The large black man would stand out anywhere, and today, Hermione was grateful for that as she wound her way toward him. If Sam were here, so was Harry - or, at least, Sam would know where to find him.

"Sam!" she called as soon as it was reasonably polite to do so.

"Mornin', Hermione." The big man's face split with a welcoming smile, and he rose to accept her hug. "How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. Where's Harry?"

Sam chuckled, and Hermione felt her face warming. Normally she was more polite than that.

"He ran back upstairs," Sam said. "Said he forgot something."

Hermione thanked him, but inside she was frowning. What could Harry possibly have forgotten on a Saturday morning?

"Hermione!" Harry's happy shout made her turn, and then she was frozen in place, staring at him. She'd seen him in a polo shirt and jeans before, of course, during their various visits to each other, but today, something about him made her breath catch in her throat.

Harry was hugging her - almost as tightly as she hugged him, she noted idly - before she could say anything. She decided the best response was to hug him back, equally tightly.

"Are you okay, Harry?"

"For having just found out someone's entered me in a potentially deadly tournament? Peachy." Harry's tone was more humorous than sarcastic, and Hermione stepped back to glare at him.

"It's not funny, Harry. You could be hurt. Or - or - or worse." Hermione swallowed hard. She really didn't want to think about _hurt_, much less _worse_, but it seemed somebody had to.

"I have to laugh about it where I can," Harry said quietly, and Hermione blinked for a moment, processing his words, before nodding in grim understanding and hugging him again.

"Where's Callen?" she asked, deliberately changing the subject.

Harry shared an amused glance with Sam. "With Hetty."

"That sounds … well, ominous."

"Oh, it gets better," Sam said with a smirk that could only be described as evil.

"For a given definition of _better_," Harry said. Hermione felt torn between curiosity and dread, and Harry's resigned expression didn't help. He blew out a breath and added, "They're meeting with Her Majesty."

"With - Her Majesty?" Hermione repeated dumbly, but before she could focus enough to ask another question, a voice boomed out behind her.

"Harry, mate! Good to see you."

Hermione felt Harry stiffen just a little and saw Sam shift position just slightly so that he had better access to the rest of the Three Broomsticks and any danger that might approach Harry from any direction. That it was Ron's enthusiastic greeting that caused the reaction from both men was surely just a coincidence.

"Ron." Harry offered his right hand, and Hermione took a small step away from him, some instinct telling her not to get between him and Ron. Not that she thought they might fight each other, but … well, that was the thing about instincts, wasn't it? They could rarely be explained logically.

Ron stared at Harry's hand for a moment before he finally took it in his own. He grinned again. "That was a neat trick, getting the goblet to enter you. How'd you manage it from America?"

And _that_ was why she'd gotten out of the way. Harry might not have intended to fight, but Ron - well, if she were honest with herself, Ron probably didn't _want_ to fight, either. He just didn't have the best control over his initial emotional reactions. Harry had once told her an American idiom that suited Ron perfectly: his brain-to-mouth filter needed to be replaced.

Harry, though, had matured a lot since he'd left for America - not just physically, but emotionally, too, so Hermione wasn't too surprised when he just glared at Ron.

"Were you not paying attention that night, or do you think I lied?" Harry asked, his calm tone belying the tension in his stance and expression.

Ron stared at Harry, his mouth gaping, for a long moment before his expression hardened. "I guess I don't know. It's not like my _friend_ bothered to keep in touch after he left for America."

"I wrote to you, Ron," Harry said. "A dozen letters the first year I was there, one every month. And you never answered."

"Even if your family didn't know how to use the Royal Mail," Hermione put in, "I offered to send any letters with mine."

Before Ron could respond to that - probably angrily, Hermione thought - another voice came from behind him.

"Are you really Harry Potter?"

Harry's eyebrows flew up in surprise before drawing together in a frown. "Why wouldn't I be Harry Potter?"

"Well -" the speaker - Ginny - came out from behind Ron, her expression a mixture of nerves and defiance. "You don't have glasses or a scar."

Hermione didn't bother to stifle a sigh, and Harry flicked an amused glance at her before answering Ginny seriously.

"Some American healers and an exorcist got rid of the dark magic that kept my scar from healing fully," he said. "And a specialized eye healer is helping my vision correct itself as I grow."

"Really?" Ginny's eyes went wide. "Brilliant!" Then her expression turned nervous again. "Will you sign my book?"

Hermione glanced at the book Ginny thrust toward Harry and tried to hide her wince. Harry _hated_ the books that had been written about him.

"Look, Miss - Weasley?" Harry added. At Ginny's nod, he said, "Miss Weasley, those books were not only not authorized by my proper guardians, they're outright wrong. I refuse to sign any of them, because I won't give them that kind of legitimacy."

Ginny looked like she might cry, and Hermione nudged Harry's shoulder just as Sam cleared his throat quietly.

Harry hid a sigh behind a sympathetic smile. "But you didn't know that, did you?" Ginny shook her head.

"Right." Harry looked around and after a moment found a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that announced the competitors of the tournament.

Hermione couldn't help teasing, "It's okay to sign that to give it legitimacy?"

Harry laughed. "Well, it's true that my name came out of the goblet. I can't object to them writing about that, can I?"

Harry conjured a pen - a permanent marker, not a quill pen - and Hermione saw that he signed the _Prophet_ with, "Best wishes from the unwilling champion, Harry Potter."

He handed the _Prophet_ back to Ginny and said, "It was nice to meet you, Miss Weasley. Ron - it was … well. I hope life treats you well. But if you'll excuse us, Hermione and I do have plans for the day."

Harry guided Hermione out of the Three Broomsticks. As they emerged into the crisp November morning, Hermione looked up at Harry.

"I'm surprised you signed an autograph."

Harry shrugged. "It didn't cost me anything and it made her happy. I still think I'm unreasonably famous in the British magical world, but I can't change that. All I can do is live with it."

"That's - a very mature outlook."

Harry chuckled. "Well, Hetty, Nell and Callen are pretty practical people. Some of it was bound to rub off. So, is there any place - _besides_ the bookstore - that you'd like to go?"

Righteous indignation swelled within her. "And what's wrong with Tomes and Scrolls?"

"Not a thing," Harry said. "It's just that if we go there first, we'll never go anywhere else, and I do want to talk to you about … things."

"Things?" Hermione repeated.

"Things - like the tournament," Harry said. "And the Yule Ball."

Hermione's pulse jumped. "The - Yule Ball?"

Harry had paused in front of Scrivenshaft's, and he turned to face her fully, making sure they were out of the way of most of the other pedestrians.

Harry pulled a small box from his pocket and held it up between them. "Would you like to go with me?"

Harry opened the box to reveal a small teardrop sapphire - about as long as the nail on her little finger- dangling from a silver chain.

As a rule, Hermione Granger did not squeal in excitement. As a rule, Hermione Granger was a studious (sometimes too much so), level-headed witch.

Harry Potter's question - and, okay, the necklace, too - made her squeal and throw her arms around him for a breath-expelling hug.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"I take it that's a _yes_, then," Harry returned dryly as he hugged her in turn.

"Of course it's a _yes_, silly," Hermione said, and her cheeks hurt from smiling so widely. Suddenly, the feelings she thought she shouldn't be having - not for a friend, anyway - seemed a lot less forbidden.

Despite being the Gypsy King, G hated politics. With a passion. That hatred was one reason why he'd chosen the life of a field agent rather than a desk jockey. Fortunately, he'd had managers who were good at the political game for most of his career, and one or two who weren't just good but supremely good.

Henrietta "Hetty" Lange fell into the latter category, and G gave himself over to her knowledge of such things with a trust he'd learned to offer very few people. That Hetty was Romani like he was made that trust ever-so-slightly easier to offer.

Still, he'd never expected to have tea with the Queen of England, let alone be given no notice of said appointment. So he'd transfigured his work-appropriate shirt and jeans into something a bit more formal, and then sat with Hetty, Her Majesty, and the Prince of Wales, sipping tea that was probably too plain for Hetty's taste while Hetty briefed the British royals on Harry Potter's forced participation in the Triwizard Tournament and then discussed the likely implications.

Finally, the Queen set her cup aside. "While I am, like my great-great-grandmother, not amused by this turn of events, I am unfamiliar with the magical world. How might whatever influence I have there best serve young Harry?"

"You have more influence than you might think, Ma'am," G said, and then kicked himself for it. Hetty had asked him to let her handle the meeting, and here he'd overridden her without thinking.

"Please explain."

G glanced at Hetty, who nodded minutely, and set his teacup aside before straightening in his seat. "Britain is - unusual, in her magical history, Ma'am. I can't go into detail as I'm not a magi-historian, but as I understand it, the Wizarding Charter that gave magical Britain some autonomy pre-dates Parliament as we know it today by several hundred years, back to a time when the king or queen still held plenary power. Because of that, and because the magical citizens of Britain never participated in the English Civil War and its successor governments and revolutions, Your Majesty still retains plenary power within magical Britain."

"Well put, Mr. Callen," Hetty said quietly. By the look of their expressions, the Queen and Prince of Wales were mulling over G's words.

"For someone who is not a - how did you put it? Oh, yes - a magi-historian, you explained the situation succinctly and comprehensibly," the Queen said. "Such adjectives do not often jointly apply."

"Thank you, Ma'am," G said.

"Are there any conditions in which the monarch might lose that plenary power?" the Prince of Wales asked.

"Yes," G said, glancing at Hetty. She simply nodded for him to continue, offering him a single raised eyebrow, and G suddenly understood. Hetty might be the Queen's friend, but he was the Queen's peer. The explanation should come from him - even if the Queen in question wasn't aware of his position.

G took a moment to summon the memories of lessons he'd learned long ago, then took a breath and began.

"The kings and queens of Britain have a special relationship with their land and people," he said. "You may have heard of Sir James Frazer's concept of the sacred king?"

"I met Sir James once," the Queen said, "shortly before he died. And while I was at Windsor during the war, I read _The Golden Bough_. Yes, I am familiar with it."

G nodded to acknowledge her words and continued, "He got it partly right. Yes, there is a sacrificial relationship between monarch and people - each swear to die to protect the other, and each renews that promise occasionally through a sacrificial death - but it need not be the monarch himself that dies. A blood-family member may, too. So long as that sacrificial cycle is maintained, the monarchy's plenary power in the magical world remains."

"You'll forgive my saying so," the Prince put in, "but it sounds absurd. My grandfather died naturally, as did his father, and his father, and so on."

"But your great-uncle did not," Hetty said. "The Duke of Kent died in a plane crash off the coast of Scotland. And your ex-wife did not - she died as a result of a car accident in Paris."

"But you said blood family," the Prince objected. "She married into family."

"But she's the mother of the future king," G said. "And that counts, magically speaking - just like it counts that Harry was born here, which is why I read up on the subject."

"I - well." The Queen stopped herself. "I can't say that I see, exactly - perhaps you can suggest some further reading for us?"

"Of course," Hetty said. "I'll have a list prepared as soon as we're finished here today."

"Thank you. What do you want me to do?"

"We're not entirely certain," Hetty said. "As it is, we have only suspicions that someone is out to deliberately harm Harry. I came to inform you as you had taken an interest in him before."

"At your request." The Queen sounded amused.

Hetty nodded, and G bit back a grin. "Matters are more complicated now that he has American citizenship - but as Mr. Callen said, blood does tell in the magical world."

"If your schedule allows, Ma'am," G said, "your attendance at each of the tasks would be appreciated. If anything does go sideways, I trust your judgment to resolve things more than I do the Minister for Magic's."

"We hope that nothing does go sideways," Hetty added, "but as Harry's been entered against his will, it's a slim hope."

"I understand." The Queen's tone, like her expression, had lost all amusement. "When are these tasks?"

"November 24, February 24, and June 24," G answered readily. "We'll know the exact times later."

"Odd that they're spaced so far apart," the Prince of Wales observed.

"A great many things about the magical world are odd, Sir," Hetty replied. "And not _just_ because they're magical."

The Queen and Prince chuckled softly. "I imagine they are," the Prince said.

"Very well," the Queen said after a moment. "I shall clear my schedule for those days and the days after, so that I can attend this tournament and be available should my authority be required."

"About that," the Prince put in. "I have the impression that you wish to surprise people with this?" G nodded once and the Prince frowned. "My mother is - quite recognizable."

G couldn't help laughing. "She is. But British magicals keep more to themselves than most. They won't recognize Her Majesty."

"They have no television, you see," Hetty put in. "And rarely venture into the non-magical world."

"To be absolutely certain," G put in, "I'll glamour you to look differently than you do now. You'll be as anonymous as we know how to make you."

"I will?" The Queen's expression lightened. "I should like that, I think - quite clandestine, as if I were a spy of some sort."

"You would have made an excellent spy," Hetty said.


	6. Chapter 6

When the wand weighing ceremony finally arrived, Harry felt like he was flying. Then again, he'd felt that way since Hermione had accepted his invitation to accompany him to the Yule Ball.

At this rate, he'd have to borrow a broom and find somewhere to actually fly, just to try to relieve some of his excitement.

"Center," Sam murmured from Harry's left as they followed a third-year student named Colin Creevey to the classroom where the ceremony would be held. Creevey had appeared overly excited to meet Harry and tried to talk to him more than once before Sam's glare quieted his questions.

Trusting Sam, and Callen to his right, to keep watch for anything unexpected, Harry let his eyes fall half-closed and breathed deeply in before blowing out as much air as he could and repeating the process as they walked.

The exercise was one of the first he'd learned at Keating - how to calm his emotions and _feel_ the magic flowing through him - and he'd been stunned at the idea. That was the first of many ideas Keating had about magic that had never even been hinted at during his brief stay at Hogwarts.

Conversations with Hermione confirmed those ideas still hadn't been hinted at, even as she was beginning her fourth year of study. Not for the first time, Harry was glad he'd moved to the States with Hetty, Callen, and Nell.

Finally, Creevey showed them to a small classroom. All of the desks but three had been shoved to the sides of the room. The remaining three were placed end to end in front of the blackboard - _blackboard? Really?_ \- and covered with a length of velvet. Five chairs sat behind the line of desks, but only one of them was occupied at the moment.

"Ludo Bagman," Callen murmured in Harry's ear. Harry nodded once to show he recognized the name. "No idea who the woman with him is."

The woman wore magenta robes and her hair was set in rigid curls, but Harry couldn't name her.

"I'll check the perimeter," Sam murmured before slipping away apparently unobserved despite his jeans and Henley T-shirt, so different from the robes the witches and wizards wore.

Bagman happened to glance up and spot Harry. In a heartbeat, he'd bounded out of his chair and around the desk to approach Harry.

"Ah, there he is! Come on in, Harry - nothing to worry about, just the wand weighing ceremony."

"Pardon me, sir," Harry said, "but why do we have to weigh our wands? What difference could that possibly make?"

Bagman blinked owlishly at him - and Hedwig would never forgive that comparison if she ever found out about it - before realization dawned. "Oh! No, it's not that at all. We have to check that your wands are fully functional - no problems, because they're your most important tool in the tasks."

Harry frowned. "Then wouldn't it make more sense to weigh them right before each task? There're still weeks to go before the first one, then months before the second and third."

"The wand expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore," Bagman continued, as though Harry hadn't spoken. Harry wondered if the man could actually answer his question, but put the thought aside as Bagman added, "And there'll be a little photo shoot."

During his almost rambling speech, Bagman had pulled Harry closer to the velvet-covered desks, right up to the witch in magenta. "This is Rita Skeeter. She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the _Daily Prophet._"

"Maybe not _that_ small, Ludo," Skeeter said. Her gaze never wavered from where it had fixed on Harry. "I wonder if I might have a word with Harry before we start? The youngest champion, returned from the States just to compete. You know, add a little color?"

"Of course, of course," Bagman replied. "That is, if Harry has no objection?"

"Lovely." The word had barely left Skeeter's mouth before her scarlet-tipped fingers clamped around Harry's upper arm and she was steering him out of the room and to a nearby door.

"We don't want to be in there with all that noise," she said as she opened the door. "Ah, yes - much better. Nice and cozy."

The door led to a broom closet. Harry could only stare at her, baffled.

"Yes, perfect." Skeeter perched on an upended bucket, pushed Harry into sitting on a cardboard box, and then closed the door, plunging the little room into darkness.

Harry released his wand from its holster and said, "_Lumos_."

His wand glowed with just enough light that they could see each other.

"Thank you, Harry, most chivalrous," Skeeter said as she rummaged in her crocodile-skin bag. "You won't mind if I use a Quick Quotes Quill, will you? It leaves me free to talk to you normally, without the bother of taking notes."

"I do mind, actually," Harry said, "if it's not spelled for accuracy."

"Oh, I'm certain it is," Skeeter said breezily. She produced a roll of parchment that she unrolled across a case of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. Another dip into her bag revealed an acid-green quill that she stood on the parchment.

"Testing… Rita Skeeter, _Daily Prophet_." As she spoke, the quill moved across the parchment. "Yes, excellent," she said before Harry could make out what the quill had actually written.

"So, Harry." Skeeter looked at him with a smile that was caught somewhere between patronizing and predatory. "What made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Er - I didn't," Harry said. The quill seemed to move much longer than three short words should have taken.

To confirm that observation, Harry added, "I don't know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I was in the States the whole time."

Yes, the quill was definitely moving longer than it would take to note down Harry's brief response.

Before Harry could call her on her quill's overactive creativity, the door to the broom closet slammed open, and there was Callen - and behind him, Sam. Both of the men had SIG-Sauer P229 E2 pistols at the ready.

Skeeter let out an _"Eep!"_ and Harry aimed a mock glare at his almost-father and honorary uncle. "Guns, guys? Really? Not wands?"

"Wands only scare wizards," Callen replied. "Guns scare everyone."

"Everyone with more than two brain cells to rub together," Sam added.

"What's going on?" Callen asked. Neither he nor Sam had yet to lower their weapons.

"Er - this is Rita Skeeter," Harry said. "She's with the -"

"_Daily Prophet_," Skeeter finished smoothly. "I'm doing a piece on the Triwizard Tournament. Harry agreed to give me a few minutes of his time."

Callen kept his weapon trained on Skeeter, but his gazed flicked to Harry. "Did you?"

Harry turned the question over in his mind for a moment, finally settling on, "More or less."

Callen still didn't lower his weapon. "You're certain? Because an adult witch pulling an underage wizard into a broom closet could be interpreted … differently."

Harry felt the heat flaming up his neck and into his cheeks - but Rita was looking even more pink than her robes.

"Who are you? How dare you insinuate -?!"

Callen cut her off. "I'm G Callen, special agent with the United States Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Also an ICW-licensed hit wizard and, assuming the paperwork's gone through, a specially-appointed Crown Prosecutor. Last but in no way least, I'm Harry's guardian - and it's as that last that I'm most concerned at the moment. Did she touch you at all, Harry?"

Harry's face would be red forever, he just knew it. But he kept his tone even when he answered, "Not in the way you mean. She tugged me in here to get away from all the noise, and I cast a lighting charm, and then she asked me questions."

"I see." Callen's tone had turned deadly as he focused on Skeeter. Sam might, generally speaking, be the more intimidating of the two, but when family was threatened, G Callen was the most frightening person Harry knew. "Ms. Skeeter, I hope you have a damned good reason for kidnapping my ward."

"Kidnapping?" Skeeter's eyes went wide behind her jeweled spectacles. "Oh, no - no, that's not it at all. I merely wanted to conduct an interview away from all the noise."

"And a broom closet was your first choice." Sam sounded at once disbelieving and condescending. "You couldn't have picked one of the other empty classrooms along the corridor?"

"Er - well -" Skeeter fumbled. "This door was closest."

Harry bit back a grin as Callen looked at Sam. Their years of partnership - at least seven, Harry remembered, and probably closer to eight - meant that they could have entire conversations in a glance.

"Fine." Callen took a step back and holstered his SIG. "But you do realize Harry is only fourteen, right? You shouldn't be interviewing him without a parent or guardian present."

Skeeter's smile turned predatory, and if Harry weren't in such a confined space, he would've taken a step back. "Harry's parents died when he was a baby. Everyone knows that."

"True enough," Callen agreed. "But guardians - Harry has three of those. I may be the only one present at the moment, but I can guarantee the other two are not nearly as nice as I am when his safety's threatened."

"I would never -!" Skeeter began.

Callen cut her off. "I'm sure. But just so there's no mistake … as long as you only say about Harry that he declined to comment, those other two won't destroy your life."

"Are you threatening a member of the press?" Skeeter demanded.

"Nope," Callen answered easily. "Just stating a fact. Harry, they're ready for you."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Skeeter." With a nod, Harry slipped past her and into the corridor.

Once they were back in the classroom Creevey had originally led them to, he said, "Thanks."

"No problem," Callen replied, and Harry could only shake his head. Callen might be old enough to be his father, but the older man most often treated Harry like a younger brother rather than a son. Harry wasn't entirely sure how he should feel about that.

Harry returned to the classroom, where he saw three others, two men and a woman, all obviously students, sat along one wall, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Harry vaguely remembered one from his brief time at Hogwarts - that one must be … the name came to him slowly … Cedric Diggory.

The other male champion must be Viktor Krum, champion for Durmstrang Institute, and seeker on the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team.

The woman, then, was Fleur Delacour, champion for Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. She had a distant, regal air about her, and Harry thought that if he weren't already determined to have Hermione Granger as his girlfriend, he might find Fleur attractive.

Harry greeted the other three champions briefly as he slipped into a seat beside Diggory, then turned his attention to the front of the room.

Four of the five judges now sat behind the row of velvet-covered desks: Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman.

Albus Dumbledore strode in and took his place with the other judges at the table, though his attention was only for the four champions.

"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander." Dumbledore said, and it wasn't really a question. "He is the latest in a long line of wandmakers - his family have been wandmakers since 382 BC. Today, he will check your wands to ensure they are in good condition before the tournament."

Harry had no idea how checking the wands for defects equated to weighing them, but he clapped politely along with the other spectators as an old wizard with large, pale eyes approached. Harry remembered getting his first wand from Mr. Ollivander during that first trip to Diagon Alley with Hagrid, but he'd forgotten what the man looked like until just now.

Ollivander paused in the center of the room. "Thank you for that kind introduction, Headmaster. Let's start with Miss Delacour. If you'll join me, please?"

The young woman swept from her seat and across the floor before offering Ollivander her wand.

Ollivander took it, twirled it between his fingers, nodding apparently absently as pink and gold sparks flew from the wand he held. Then he brought it up close to his eyes, squinting a little as he examined it.

"Ah, I see, yes," he muttered. "Nine and a half inches … rosewood, rather inflexible … containing - oh. Dear me."

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," Fleur said. "One of my grandmuzzer's."

"Yes, of course." Ollivander lowered the wand. "I've never used veela hair myself, I find it makes for rather temperamental wands, but if the wand suits you, then …"

He trailed off with a shrug, then ran his fingertips along the wand. Harry thought he might be checking for scratches or other imperfections in the wood.

"_Orchideous!_" Ollivander said, and a bouquet of flowers emerged from the tip of the wand.

"Very well, yes. It seems to be in fine working order." Ollivander removed the flowers from the wand tip and offered first them and then the wand to Fleur. "Mr. Diggory - you next, please."

Ollivander examined Diggory's wand similarly - "Now this is one of mine, isn't it? Twelve and a quarter inches, pleasantly springy ash with a unicorn tail hair core" - and moved on to Viktor Krum - "A Gregorovitch creation, if I'm not much mistaken, rather thicker than one usually sees. Ten and a quarter inches, hornbeam and dragon heartstring, quite rigid."

Finally, it was Harry's turn. He rose and didn't quite march to the center of the room before handing over his wand, grip first.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Potter," Ollivander was saying. "I remember your wand quite well, thought we'd never find a match. Eleven inches, holly with a phoenix feather -"

Ollivander broke off abruptly to stare at the wand in his hand before glaring back at Harry. "This is not the wand I sold you. Was it damaged?"

"No, sir," Harry answered. "I still use your holly wand as my backup."

Although Dumbledore looked stunned by the exchange, Harry's words appeared to mollify Ollivander, at least a little, and Harry was glad of it. Not that he'd change his opinion or wand, but he didn't want to hurt the other man, however unwittingly.

Harry's wand got the same treatment as the other three. "Hm… interesting … I don't recognize the wandmaker?"

"Notaku," Harry said. "He's a Miwok shaman my godmother knows."

"Pardon me, Harry," Dumbledore said. "But what's a Miwok?"

"The Miwok are an indigenous tribe in California."

Dumbledore blinked, so Harry added, "A Native American tribe, sir."

Even after that explanation, Dumbledore still looked a bit out of sorts. Harry gave a mental shrug as it wasn't his job to educate the educator and focused once more on Ollivander, who had raised Harry's wand so close to his eyes that his eyelashes could touch it if he blinked.

"Most unusual," Ollivander muttered. "Eleven and a half inches, redwood, strong with a bit of give. I don't recognize the core."

Ollivander's last statement appeared to disturb everyone else in the room more than it disturbed him.

"A coatl scale," Harry said. "A coatl is a species of feathered serpent, native to the Americas."

"Interesting, yes, very interesting." Ollivander finished his examination of Harry's wand and sent several fireworks shooting from it. He handed it back to Harry with the observation that, "Yes, it appears to be in working order."

"Thank you all," Dumbledore said, rising from his seat at the judges' table. "You may all head down for dinner, as it is almost -"

"Photos, Dumbledore! Photos!" Ludovic Bagman cried. "All the champions and the judges first, eh?"

Harry gave a silent sigh, then summoned a smile that wouldn't have fooled Callen or Sam for a hot second and took his place with the other champions.

At least he'd see Hermione again at dinner.


	7. Chapter 7

Warning for a couple of naughty words.

Finding a place for them to stay and Harry to train for the tournament as well as continue his regular schoolwork turned out to be easier than G had expected.

"Why not use Grimmauld Place?" Sirius asked when he met with G and Sam for dinner at the Leaky Cauldron. "You've all stayed there when you've come for visits, so Harry's comfortable there. Plus the Black family library is second to none, so Harry will have access to everything he needs to keep studying."

"Sounds good," G said. "But what about physical training - combat magic and such?"

"The Blacks have a manor house in Gloucestershire," Sirius said. "Lots of open space, and the property is warded so that non-magicals won't see anything out of the ordinary. There's also -"

He broke off, and G shared a curious glance with Sam. When Sirius didn't seem inclined to finish his sentence, G prompted, "There's also - what?"

Sirius blew out a breath. "I know that Harry hasn't shown much interest in his family's history and holdings, but the Potter family has a country house in Hertfordshire. Or they did - I stayed there with Harry's grandparents once. I haven't been back since James and Lily died, so I don't know what condition it's in."

G didn't need his undercover skills to read Sirius' distress, and he hurried to correct the other man's assumption. "It's not that Harry's not interested, Sirius. He's very interested."

Sirius gave him a disbelieving look. "You could have fooled me."

"He is," G repeated. "But the four of us -me, Hetty, Nell, and Harry - sat down and discussed how to handle his inheritance. We decided that apart from living expenses and a few family heirlooms, Harry will leave it alone until he comes of age."

"Oh." Sirius slumped back in his chair. "Thank Magic. I thought - I thought he hated Britain. We haven't exactly been kind to him."

"Countries can't be kind to people," Sam pointed out. "Only people can be kind to people - or not. And I can't disagree that a lot of British people have screwed Harry over … but a lot more of them haven't. Including you - and you matter to him. A lot."

Sirius attempted a smile. "If you were a woman, I'd think you were flirting with me."

"You've met my wife, right?" Sam countered, and Sirius laughed, finally relaxing.

"It's dark enough already that we should look at the properties tomorrow," G said.

"We'll have to take Harry with us, at least to the Potters' summer cottage," Sirius said. "I don't remember being added to the wards there."

"And we certainly aren't," G said by way of agreement.

"Let's go there first," Sam said. "Then I can start drilling Harry while you two look at the other place."

"I don't understand." Sirius frowned. "You let him decide what to do with his inheritance, but you're not letting him look at both properties?"

"What Sam's not saying is, it's a pretty good bet he'll choose his family's property," G said wryly. "He loves his parents - or maybe loves the _idea_ of his parents he's formed from stories you and Hetty have told him. Of course he'll choose their house."

"Unless your place is better for training," Sam said. "And Harry doesn't know enough to make that decision. G does."

Sirius looked between them, then shook his head. "Barmy Americans."

Being back at the Gryffindor table was less pleasant than Harry had hoped. Hermione had thrown her arms around him in a rib-bruising hug, and Neville Longbottom shook his hand with a shy smile, which had surprised him, but Harry returned it readily enough.

Ron Weasley, though - Ron would barely look at him.

After the meeting with Ron in Hogsmeade, Harry supposed he shouldn't be surprised at Ron's distant manner. Still, the certainty that he'd lost the first friend he'd made - however distant that friendship had become - hurt more than he'd expected.

Hermione sat across from Neville near the end of the Gryffindor table. The two had become friends since Harry's departure, something Harry was glad for, and he promised himself to try to get to know the other boy better while he was at Hogwarts. Not that he meant to replace Ron, specifically, but from what Hermione had said of Neville during their talks, he sounded like a good bloke, if a bit timid.

He vaguely remembered the rest of his year-mates - images surfaced when they offered their names, but nothing substantial enough to be called a memory - and smiled and shook each of their hands in turn before settling in beside Hermione, gently easing her along the bench so that he had the end spot. Harry didn't _really_ expect anything to happen, but he wanted to be able to move freely just in case.

"Will you be staying with us this year, Harry?" Neville asked.

Harry shook his head. "I'm not a Hogwarts student. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students aren't staying in the dorms, so I shouldn't, either."

"Technically, they are on the grounds," Hermione pointed out, and Harry laughed as the food appeared in front of them.

"But not in the dorms," Harry said. "In fairness, I shouldn't stay in the dorms." He surveyed the Great Hall. "Besides - I don't think I'd be all that welcome."

"Of course -" Hermione began, but Neville - shy, timid Neville - cut her off.

"Not everyone's glad to see you again, that's for sure." Neville glared at Ron but was too polite to say anything more.

"Everyone's allowed their opinion," Harry said. "Even if I don't like it. I'm just sorry the two of you are stuck in the middle of it."

"Two more years," Hermione muttered.

"Two more years for what?" Harry asked, and Hermione blushed.

"Sorry - I didn't mean to say that out loud," she said.

"But you did," Harry said softly. "Two more years for what?"

Hermione hesitated a moment, her lips pursed in thought, before she sat forward to glance up and down the table, so Harry did likewise. Nobody else seemed to be paying more than cursory attention to them, but still Hermione gestured him and Neville closer.

"Don't tell anyone else," she said. Harry promised he wouldn't, and Neville followed suit. She smiled her thanks then said, "I haven't been happy at Hogwarts since second year. And - well -" she blushed again but hurried on, "it's not fun talking to you just on the weekends and seeing you once or twice a year."

Harry felt his own cheeks heating, and would've said something reassuring to her, but she plowed on - probably to avoid losing her nerve.

"So my parents and I have been talking, and we're going to move to America."

Neville sat back as though he'd been slapped in the face. And he had, Harry mused, if only metaphorically. Harry, though, couldn't help grinning. That was the best news he'd heard since he'd gotten his acceptance to Keating.

"Why two years?" Neville asked.

"It'll take that long for my parents to finish the coursework to get licensed in California," Hermione said.

Neville frowned. "Licensed?"

"They're dentists," Harry said, adding, "Teeth healers, basically. It's a challenging thing to study."

"Of course it is," Neville said. "What else would we expect from parents who produced Hermione?"

Harry laughed, though Hermione tried to glare at the other boy. Finally, she gave up and smiled.

"But they're already - licensed, was it? - here. Can't they just move house and practice there?"

"No," Hermione said. "Each state has its own requirements that dentists have to meet, and none of them accept a British license without additional study. But they can minimize the study time."

"That _doesn't_ sound like you," Harry offered in a teasing tone.

"They've already studied it," Hermione said, "and been in practice almost twenty years. It would be like - like - one of us repeating first year."

"Boring," Neville said. "We already know the material."

"Exactly," Hermione said. "So they're looking at an accelerated study program. They'll have two years of practical and clinical coursework and then take an exam."

"How long is it normally?" Neville asked, apparently genuinely curious.

"Eight years," Hermione said, and Neville sat back.

"Bloody hell," he said. "That long?"

"Four-year undergraduate degree," Harry said. "Right? Then four years of actual dental school?"

"Right," Hermione said. "So two years isn't that long, really." She offered Harry a shy smile. "I was going to tell you over the Christmas holiday. They'll have their first round of exams done by then."

"That's fantastic," Harry said sincerely. "I'm sure they'll love California."

"What's it like?" Neville asked. "I've been to France, and Spain, but nowhere in America."

"Bloody hot," Harry answered without thinking. "Mid-eighties in the summer."

Neville frowned. "Eighties? Isn't that like - on fire?"

"Oh - sorry. I've gotten used to thinking in Fahrenheit." Harry did some quick mental math. "High twenties."

"Better - but still hot," Neville agreed.

"As much clouds as you have here, Los Angeles has that much sunshine. Even in the winter," Harry added. "Half as many people as London, but it feels just as crowded."

"Weird," Neville said.

"But true," Hermione put in. "And it's spread out over lots of kilometers, and you'd think that would make it better, but it just makes it worse."

"And school's a combination of magical and non-magical subjects," Harry went on. "From what I've heard, all American magical schools teach both, except Ilvermorny."

"Isn't that a lot of work?" Neville asked.

Hermione snorted before Harry could respond. "You don't even want to see the physical drills they do."

"Physical?" Neville repeated, eyes wide. "Why?"

"It's a military school," Harry said. "I'm thinking of joining the Navy."

It was difficult to decide whether Neville's eyes or open mouth was the wider of the two. "Why?"

"Lots of reasons." Harry shrugged. "But mostly, I love to fly, and the Navy will let me, if I get good enough grades."

The Potter property in Hertfordshire turned out to be the better choice for their base of operations, not just because it belonged to Harry's family. The house itself had enough bedrooms to comfortably hold G and Nell, Hetty, Harry, Sam and Michelle, and still Aiden and Kamran would have rooms to themselves. A potions laboratory took up a portion of the ground floor off the kitchens - not a surprise, G mused, given that Fleamont Potter had been a gifted brewer whose potions had made the Potters rich. Besides that, there was a full basement that had been set up as a dueling pitch. Apparently Harry's knack for magical combat was a family trait.

Between them, G, Sirius, and Sam had set up a training schedule for Harry that included his regular coursework for Keating, plus additional studies in magical creatures and advanced magical combat - what the British Wizarding World insisted on calling "Defense against the Dark Arts."

Sam had laughed so hard when he heard the term that he'd almost given himself a hernia. When Harry asked about it, Sam snorted.

"As though only dark arts are ever used in combat. You can kill someone with a cutting curse or a tripping hex as easily as you can with the Killing Curse."

After the Weighing of the Wands, Harry opted to stay in Britain through the first task. G and Hetty agreed, and Nell had promised to come across the Pond to watch Harry compete in the first task, but agreed that G, Sam, and Sirius were better choices to train Harry for the tasks than she was, and would therefore spend most of her time in California.

"And, of course," G said to Harry, "you can visit Hermione on the Hogsmeade weekend between now and then."

G had to conceal his grin at Harry's blush.

This afternoon, in the drawing room lit by the sun hanging low in the sky shining through a wall of windows, it was Sirius' turn to drill Harry in Transfiguration, and G was watching as Sirius led Harry through a series of progressively more precise switching spells.

"Right," Sirius said. "I'm going to take this pocket watch -" he held up the item in question, and it glinted gold in a shaft of sunlight "- and put it on the windowsill here."

He suited action to words, and then turned back to face Harry. "Switch it with this pen."

He placed a fountain pen on a side table. "This is for distance and size. Go."

Harry took a breath, and just as he raised his wand to cast, G's cell phone rang, shattering the quiet of the room.

"Do it," Sirius snapped. "There'll be worse distractions than that in a fight."

"Right," Harry muttered, even as G strode across the room, pulling his phone from his pocket as he went. A glance at the screen told him Nell was calling, and he frowned as he swiped the screen to answer the call.

"A little early to be saying you miss me," he said, and Nell laughed.

"I don't _just_ call for that, you know," she said.

Something in her tone alerted him that, "This is one of _those_ calls, isn't it? What do you know?"

"Dragons." The word was barely a whisper.

"Dragons? What about dragons?"

He heard her take a deep, if shuddery, breath and release it. "Hetty talked to SecNav and got authorization for a satellite flyover of Hogwarts."

"Of course she did." G had given up being surprised at anything Hetty did (or had done) years ago. "And?"

"And they've brought in four great big bloody _dragons_ and have them penned up on the far side of the forest at Hogwarts."

"Dragons," G repeated. "You're not joking, are you?"

"Do I sound like I'm joking?" The question was ragged enough that it provided its own answer. Then Nell drew another breath, and another, each sounding less shaky than the last. "Four champions. Four dragons. The first task is -"

"Dragons," G finished with her and groaned. "Just when I think the Brits can't get any crazier…"

"It gets worse," Nell finished.

"It gets worse," G agreed. "What kind of idiot thinks making people face dragons is good entertainment?"

"The same kind who thought up gladiatorial contests," Nell answered. "But I meant the dragons get worse."

"What? How?"

"They have nests. With eggs in them."

"Nesting mothers." G fell back against the door he'd closed behind him. "Fuck."

"Fuck," Nell agreed.

G shook off his momentary shock and pushed the anger aside. He'd have time to deal with that later. Right now, his focus had to be on intelligence that could help Harry. "Have you identified the dragons?"

"Chinese Fireball. Hungarian Horntail. Swedish Short-Snout. Welsh Green."

"Fan-freaking-tastic," G muttered. "Okay, Nell - thanks. At least knowing that will help us figure out a strategy."

"How are you otherwise?" she asked.

"Missing you." And it wasn't an exaggeration. Since they'd been thrown together as Harry's guardians, Nell Jones had become such an integral part of G's life, both personally and professionally, that not having her by his side felt stranger than not being partnered with Sam on a mission.

"I'll be over in a few days for the first task," she said. "And I hope you have a room far from anyone else."

"No, but I have a perfectly functional silencing charm."

"Mm. We'll see." The teasing note in her voice made G chuckle. Then she yawned. "Sorry - I was up most of the night with the satellite flyover."

"Then you'd better get some sleep," G told her. "You'll need all your energy."

"Promises, promises."

G ended the call on her laughter. Sobering quickly, he made his way back into the drawing room to see that Sam had joined Sirius and Harry - presumably using one of the other two doors to the room. _Unless he apparated silently, which has been known to happen._

"The first task," G said without preamble, "involves dragons. Nesting mother dragons."

"Um -" Harry let his wand hand fall and, with it, the silver teapot he'd been levitating. It hit the hardwood floor with a resounding _clang_. "Should you be telling me that? I mean - it's cheating, isn't it?"

"No," Sam said flatly. "If you had entered voluntarily, then it would be cheating. But you didn't, and our goal is for you to survive it, not win it."

"That's - really twisted logic," Harry said.

"Maybe," Sirius said, "but even if what Sam said wasn't true - and it _is_, in case you wondered - cheating in the tournament is as big a tradition as the tournament itself. Frankly, if it weren't for cheating, probably every competitor would have died."

G could only stare at the man who had so improbably become his friend. "That's - there aren't any words for that."

"There's one," Sam corrected. "_Insane._"

Sirius shrugged. "Insane or not, it's true. So." He rubbed his hands together. "Dragons. What else do we know?"


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione held back from the entrance to the stands surrounding the dragon enclosure - _Dragons! Real, live, dragons! My parents are going to faint when they see this memory. _\- straining for a glimpse of Callen or, more likely, Sam, as Harry's family arrived for the first task. She'd rather sit with them than any of the Hogwarts students.

She was bitterly disappointed in her schoolmates - all of them, except for Neville and the Weasley twins, seemed to have ignored or forgotten Harry's statement in the Great Hall. Instead, they were calling Harry a cheater, a liar, and worse.

She could only imagine how much worse it would be if Harry had still been a student at Hogwarts when the tournament happened.

"Hey, Hermione." Neville's quiet voice made her jump.

"Oh!"

"Sorry," Neville muttered.

"No, it's all right, Neville. I was just looking for Harry's family. Would you like to sit with us?"

"If it won't be an imposition," Neville said.

Hermione couldn't help smiling at that. "With a crowd like this? It's not like we'd be sitting in the royal box or anything."

Neville laughed a little, and then, past him, Hermione saw the bulk that was Sam Hanna approaching.

"Sam!" She raised her hand high over her head, waving it to try to catch his attention. A moment later, his eyes met hers and he nodded once before shifting direction toward her.

As they drew closer, Hermione saw Callen, Nell, Hetty, and the rest of Callen's team - Marty Deeks, Kensi Blye, and Eric Beale - with Sam. Hermione couldn't help staring at Kensi, Deeks, and Eric. They weren't magical, so how were they here?

It was a question to ask them later, she decided, as she recognized the last of their party - Sirius Black, with a dark-haired witch Hermione didn't know on his arm.

Hermione introduced Neville to the ones she knew and in turn was introduced to Sirius' companion, Alexandra, before they made their way to seats fairly low in the stands. She found herself sitting next to Alexandra, who was looking around with interest.

More to distract herself from _dragons - Harry had to face a dragon_ \- than from any real interest, Hermione addressed Alexandra. "Has it changed much? Hogwarts, I mean?"

"I wouldn't know," Alexandra replied with a smile that Hermione could only describe as kind. "I didn't attend."

"Oh." Hermione frowned. "But I thought all the British witches and wizards attended Hogwarts."

"I was educated at home - private tutors."

"Sometimes I wish I could have private tutors." The words were out before Hermione thought, and as soon as they were out, she wished she could take them back.

"Oh? Why is that?"

Alexandra seemed genuinely interested, and on her other side, Sirius looked curious as well. Hermione felt her cheeks warming.

"It's stupid, but -" Hermione began, then broke off to try to find words that wouldn't make her sound stuck up or worse.

"But Hermione's the smartest witch in our class," Neville put in from her other side. "Maybe the whole school."

"Neville!" Hermione cried, more embarrassed than ever.

"It's true," he said. "But you don't have to be as smart as you are to see that, well, sometimes you're bored in class because you already know the material. I'd bet," he added more to Alexandra and Sirius than to her, "that if she could actually practice magic over the hols, she'd already have learned all the spells through seventh year."

Hermione blushed even more, but before she could say anything, Ludo Bagman announced the first champion. She couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief when she saw it wasn't Harry. Instead, it was Cedric Diggory, and she cheered him on as he faced the Swedish Short-Snout.

Cedric had a good idea - transfiguring a rock into a dog to distract the dragon while he ran for the golden egg - but dragons, or at least Swedish Short-Snouts, apparently had short attention spans, because it was only a few seconds before it turned its attention back to Cedric.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut when she saw the dragon's mouth opening. The roar of the crowd told her that something exciting had happened, and the tone of the roar told her that it wasn't bad. So she eased one eye open, then blew out a breath when she saw Cedric had the golden egg and was halfway to the far side of the enclosure.

After a few minutes while the dragon handlers removed the Swedish Short-Snout and replaced it with a Welsh Green, it was Fleur Delacour's turn. The French witch emerged from the tunnel leading into the enclosure and cast several spells. She either spoke them too quietly or the crowd was too noisy, because Hermione couldn't make out what she said.

Then the Welsh Green dragon, improbably, curled up like a cat and appeared to go to sleep.

"Oh!" Hermione gasped. "A sleeping charm. That's even better than Cedric's distraction."

"If the charm's strong enough," Neville agreed, equally quietly. The entire stadium had fallen silent, as though they were afraid to wake the dragon with its noise.

Even Ludo Bagman's commentary was subdued - for Ludo Bagman, anyway - as Fleur hurried across the enclosure. _Probably cast a silencing charm on her feet, too. I would._

An unfortunately-timed snore from the dragon set Fleur's skirt on fire just as she was reaching for her golden egg. Calmly, the French witch put the fire out, collected her egg, and crossed to the judges' stand.

"That was - kind of anticlimactic," Neville said.

"But it worked," Hermione said, and Neville couldn't argue with that.

A second dragon switch, much shorter than the first one since the Welsh Green was still asleep, brought a Chinese Fireball into the arena. A minute after that, Viktor Krum entered the arena.

He came out with a blast - specifically some kind of curse that hit the dragon in the eye and made it roar in obvious pain.

Unfortunately, the curse also made the Fireball thrash about in blind agony. Hermione was sure she wasn't the only one who winced when the dragon destroyed some of its own eggs.

But Viktor managed to evade the flailing dragon and retrieve the golden egg. Which meant it was Harry's turn. Hermione worried a fingernail between her teeth. What kind of dragon would Harry face? What would he do to get his egg? Would he survive it?

When Hermione dragged herself out of her worrying, the dragon handlers were wrestling the fourth dragon into the arena. It was bigger than the other three, with horns spiking from its head and tail.

"What is _that_?" Alexandra asked beside her.

From Alexandra's other side, Sirius replied gravely, "A Hungarian Horntail - you can see how it got the name. Not often seen in Britain. Of the four, I'd say it's the most dangerous and not just because of the tail."

"Why else?" Alexandra asked.

"Attitude," Callen said from his seat behind them. Hermione had almost forgotten he was there. "As the saying goes, they're born nasty and just get meaner as they get older."

"Not helping, Callen," Hermione muttered, and Callen's hand came to rest on her shoulder. She looked up at him.

"Harry will be fine," he told her. "We practiced for this."

"How can you practice for _this_?" Hermione demanded, then frowned. "Wait - how did you _know_ to practice for this?"

"Nell saw the dragons on a satellite photo."

"A satellite -" Hermione clicked her teeth shut, then drew in a breath. "That's cheating."

"If you're not cheating, you're not trying," Sirius said airily, and Alexandra coughed to hide what Hermione suspected was a laugh.

"Hermione." Callen's voice was even, steady, and serious. "Harry didn't _choose_ to enter this contest like the other three did. That -" he gestured at the arena, and more specifically the Horntail "- should prove that whoever entered his name at the very least doesn't care if Harry gets hurt, or even dies. There's no such thing as a fair fight when you're at war."

The crowd's cheering cut off any reply Hermione might have made, and she looked down to see that Harry had entered the arena.

Unlike the other three competitors who'd been dressed in dueling robes, Harry wore what looked like combat fatigues. That made sense, she supposed - he did attend a military school, after all. But it also made him look dangerous in a way the others hadn't. Hermione shivered, and tried to tell herself it was because of the cold rather than seeing her best friend in a new light.

"Good luck, Harry," she whispered.

Pausing just inside the enclosure, Harry surveyed the arena and then the stadium. His eyes seemed to meet hers for a moment, and Hermione smiled at him, though of course from this distance, he likely couldn't tell it was her.

Then again - he was a seeker, first for the Gryffindor team and now for the Keating team. Perhaps he _had_ seen her after all. She certainly hoped that smile was for her. But then as quickly as it had come, Harry's smile vanished and he was focused on the dragon before him.

He strode forward until he caught the dragon's attention. Then he stopped and conjured - of all things - Monty Python's Comfy Chair and made himself comfortable.

Hermione met Neville's shocked gaze with one of her own, while Sirius seemed to be stifling a guffaw. A glance over her shoulder told her that both Callen and Sam looked … anxious, maybe, but not worried for Harry's safety or sanity.

_I'll get the whole story from Harry later._ That resolution made, Hermione focused again on the scene before her.

If she didn't know better, she'd think Harry was talking to the dragon. And perhaps he was, actually, though she'd never hear anything that he might say without an amplifying charm, which Harry hadn't chosen to cast.

The dragon seemed to snarl a bit, and blew a large puff of smoke at Harry, who dissipated it with a wave of his wand. The dragon's tail twitched.

Then Harry conjured - Hermione could only stare. Around her, a murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd.

"_What_ is _that_?" Neville asked, his eyes wide and his voice trembling.

"That," Sam Hanna replied, "is an eighty-millimeter Carl Gustav recoilless rifle."

"Commonly, if inaccurately, referred to as a bazooka," Eric Beale finished.

"That doesn't actually explain anything," Neville said.

"It's a gun, Neville," Hermione said. "Like I showed you in the James Bond films? Only lots, lots bigger."

"Bloody hell," Neville muttered, but Hermione's attention was back on Harry, who appeared to be explaining the weapon to the dragon, to judge by how he pointed at various parts of it.

Then, without missing a beat, Harry rose from his chair, hefted the bazooka - okay, it wasn't accurate, but she couldn't remember what Sam had called it officially - and aimed it at a boulder across the arena from him.

A moment later, the boulder exploded from the impact of the round. The murmur of the crowd became a nervous roar, but Hermione kept her attention on the tableau below.

The dragon shook itself and roared, and then backed away from its nest and folded its wings.

The entire arena seemed to hold its breath as Harry approached the nest, bowed to the dragon, and removed the golden egg. He backed away from the dragon, bowed again, and vanished the chair and the weapon before making his way to the judges' stand.

"That - that was -" Neville just shrugged, leaving the sentence incomplete. Hermione wasn't certain she would be any more articulate if she spoke, so she stayed quiet, privately resolving to get all the details from Harry later.

When the judges handed out their marks for the first task, Harry was surprised to find himself in the lead. Narrowly - he had forty-two points to Viktor Krum's forty - but still in the lead. Igor Karkaroff, Durmstrang's headmaster, had given him only six points, to the eight, nine, and two tens from the other judges, but the whispers Harry was already hearing suggested Karkaroff had graded him so low because his approach wasn't "exciting" enough for the spectators.

Harry was just glad to have survived it.

When he emerged from the champions' tent after the scores were announced, Hermione was, unsurprisingly, the first to reach him, launching herself at him like a Harry-seeking version of the round he'd fired as a demonstration to the dragon.

He caught her in a hug that was almost as fierce as hers and let her babble questions at him for a few moments while the others caught up to her.

Callen was next to arrive, and he almost had to pry Hermione off Harry. Harry would admit to some surprise when Callen, too, pulled him into a hug.

"Good job," Callen murmured, and Harry offered a quiet "thanks" in return.

Sam was next, and he held out his hand. Harry shook it, and Sam said, "You kept your head out there and stuck to the plan. Well done."

Then Nell caught him up in a hug almost as hard as Hermione's. "Good work out there - but I'm still going to make the lives of everyone who thought this was a good idea _more_ than miserable."

When Nell released him, Hetty was there, smiling more widely than he remembered seeing her do very often before. Her simple, "I'm very proud of you," meant almost as much as everyone else's congratulations combined.

Harry accepted congratulations from Neville, Kensi, Deeks, and Eric as well, and then Sirius was there, grabbing his hand and shaking it heartily. "It's such an honor to be proud of the Boy-Who-Lived," he said in a manner halfway beyond earnest. "To be your godfather and watch you compete like that - simply amazing."

"Prat," Harry muttered, and the woman with Sirius laughed. Harry frowned and looked at the woman more closely. He hadn't met her before, and he didn't remember Sirius talking about anyone new in his life, so who she was remained a mystery.

Neville's voice pulled his attention away from Sirius' mystery date. "What did you do out there, Harry? It looked like you … well … like you sat down to tea with a dragon."

Harry laughed. "I knew I'd forgotten something!"

Neville's expression went from interested to crushed in a heartbeat, and guilt swept through Harry.

"I wasn't laughing at you, Neville," Harry said. "Honest. It was just the situation."

"Stress relief," Nell observed. "The adrenaline high is starting to wear off."

"I want to know, too," Hermione said. "You can tell us on the way back to the castle."

"Technically not a proper castle," Eric put in. "No gatehouses, and the crenellations are only for decoration, not defense. But still an impressive building."

Finally, the group was moving together toward Hogwarts.

"Spill, Harry," Hermione ordered, and Harry could only smile at her impatience.

"Once we found out it was dragons," Harry began quietly. Cheating in the tournament might be an open secret amongst the competitors, but it still wouldn't do to talk too much about it around others. "Training got much easier."

"How?" Deeks asked. "I mean - dragons. They had teams of people to wrangle them, so how could that be easier?"

"Because I'm a parselmouth," Harry said simply. At Hermione's blank stare, Harry clarified, "I can talk to snakes - and other reptilian animals, though Sasha said my accent's horrible."

"Sasha?" Neville stared at him, mouth agape. "That big monster's name is _Sasha_?"

"Technically, no," Harry said, "but it's the closest I can come in English."

"So - what?" Hermione asked. "You just sat down and asked the dragon to let you take the egg?"

"More or less," Harry said. A glance around told him everyone except Callen, Sam, and Sirius were still curious - especially Sirius' date - so he shrugged. "I got close enough for her to notice me, and then made myself less of a threat."

"By conjuring the chair," Nell said.

"Right. I sat down and greeted her. Once we got past the niceties -"

"Wait," Deeks said. "Dragons have _niceties_?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Harry said. "It's just that most humans can't understand most dragons, and vice versa. Anyway, I basically said that neither of us were in this situation by choice - she'd been brought here with her clutch, and I was drafted by person or persons unknown. But we both _had_ to be there, so why not make it as easy as possible?"

"Right," Neville muttered. "Easy."

"It kind of was," Harry protested. "I told her what the objective was, and that I would rather achieve it without hurting her. You can guess how hard she laughed at _that_."

The rest of the group chuckled - some more amused than scared, and some the opposite - and Harry fell silent while they crossed into the Great Hall and took seats at the sixth table that had been set up near the ends of the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables.

"I conjured the rifle to prove I could hurt her," Harry continued when they were all seated. "But she wouldn't believe it without a demonstration."

"So you blew up the boulder," Hermione said.

"Yep," Harry agreed casually. "At that point, she allowed that _maybe_ I could hurt her with it, but she doubted I could fire it again before she roasted me alive. Still, she said, it would be a shame to roast the first Speaker she'd met since being taken to the preserve in Romania, so she let me take the _offending pretender egg_ from her clutch."

"Very well negotiated, Harry," Hetty said. "An excellent example of big stick diplomacy."

"Thanks." Harry blushed, and reached for the cup at his place. It filled with a dull orange liquid. Harry said, "May I have orange juice instead, please?"

A minute later, his request was fulfilled. He picked up the cup and drank deeply.

"Do you think she'd let you talk to her again?" Hermione asked, helping herself to some cottage pie. "I mean, I'd love to ask her some questions."

"She actually asked me to visit before they go back to Romania," Harry said. "Maybe we can go down there tonight before curfew?"

"I'd love that!" Hermione said.

"Mind if Alexandra and I come along, Harry?" Sirius asked, his tone oh-so-casual, like it tended to be just before he pulled a massive prank. Harry frowned, but couldn't even conceive what prank Sirius might be planning now.

"Sure," Harry said. "But maybe nobody else? I mean, she's got a wicked sense of humor and all, but there's no need to make her nervous. We don't want any accidental roastings."

"You can talk to snakes?!" The question - more of a shout, if Harry were being honest - came from the nearest end of the Gryffindor table, where Ron Weasley had shot to his feet.

Harry scowled at the other boy. "What of it?" he asked.

"Everyone knows that's the mark of a dark wizard," Ron snapped back, and a murmur ran along the Gryffindor table, spreading almost immediately to Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.

Harry turned to Hermione. "Really?" he asked.

"We-ell," she said, obviously embarrassed, but also determined to answer, "it's true that there have been dark wizards who are parselmouths - like You-Know-Who. But Salazar Slytherin himself was a parselmouth, and I don't think anyone would call him dark. And there have been light wizards who are parselmouths, too."

"Yeah?" Ron demanded. "Name one."

"Paracelsus," Hermione said, at the same time Neville said, "Harry Potter."

"Thanks, Neville," Harry murmured, and the shy boy sitting opposite him offered a slight smile.

"Slytherin not dark?" Ron had apparently decided to backtrack, since he'd gotten an answer he obviously hadn't expected to his last question. "How can you say that?"

"While it is not my place to complete or even correct your education," Hetty said, "you are insulting my godson, and I cannot allow that to go unanswered. Salazar Slytherin was not a dark wizard."

Harry glanced around and saw that Hetty had the complete attention of those who could hear her.

"While it is true that he was cunning, ambitious, and valued blood purity beyond reason," Hetty continued, "those traits in themselves do not make him _dark_. He was rather a shade of gray, as we all are, because nobody can be perfectly light or perfectly dark."

"It's sure not my place to educate you," Sam said when Hetty finished. "But serpent speakers are highly regarded in other cultures - many Native American shamans are parselmouths, and in India they're renowned for their healing abilities."

"That's true," a girl said from the Gryffindor table. "My cousin married a parselmouth healer, and nobody would call him dark."

Harry frowned, searching his memory for who that might be - she looked like she was in the same year as Hermione. When he couldn't come up with a name, he leaned toward Hermione and quietly asked, "Who's that?"

"Parvati Patil," Hermione answered equally quietly. "Her twin sister's in Ravenclaw."

Harry nodded an acknowledgment and turned his gaze to Parvati Patil. "I've never met a parselmouth healer, Miss Patil," he told her. "Just a few of the shamans Sam mentioned. Would it be all right if I gave you a letter to send to him?"

Parvati blushed, turning her skin a darker brown color. "I'd be happy to pass along a letter. I'm sure Reyaansh will answer any questions you have."

"Thank you," Harry said. "I appreciate the offer."

"Do you think you might want to be a healer, Harry?" the girl sitting beside Parvati - Harry thought her name was Lavender - asked.

"Maybe," Harry said, though it came a distant second to flying, which he loved. And, as Nell especially kept reminding him, his choice might change before he graduated and had to choose. "But I'm still looking around. There are a lot of possibilities."

"But - don't you have to have the right electives?" Lavender asked. "I mean, doesn't your choice of electives influence the careers you can choose?"

"Maybe at Hogwarts," Harry said with a shrug. "But the American system is different. We focus on a solid foundational education, and then choose a college or technical school after we graduate high school."

"High school?" Parvati repeated with a puzzled expression.

"It runs through the twelfth grade," Harry said. "We graduate at eighteen, so it's roughly like seventh year here. But honestly, right now, I'm just focused on surviving the tournament. I'll think about careers after that."


	9. Chapter 9

On a barely-above-freezing morning in early December, Hermione hurried into Hogsmeade. Harry had gone home to America after the first task but had sent a letter saying he'd see her on the next Hogsmeade weekend.

That was one of the things she loved most about magic. By ordinary means, travel from Los Angeles to anywhere in Britain would take at least a twelve-hour flight and maybe longer depending on stops, plus a day of jet lag just to feel human again.

Thanks to magic, though, the trip could be made via portkey in less than an hour, and jet lag was easily fixed with one or two potions. Granted, the portkey was uncomfortable, but that was a small price to pay for the convenience.

And that, more even than the international phone and video calls, was why her and Harry's friendship had survived so long. Each of them was able to visit the other at least once a year for the price of a few minutes of discomfort and a handful of galleons.

Her foot slipped a little on the frost-covered ground, and she flailed for a moment before regaining her balance.

_Slow down_, she told herself. _He'll still be there in a few minutes._

And sure enough he was - sitting at a table in the Three Broomsticks, with two mugs of some steaming liquid before him.

Unlike the last time she'd seen him, Harry was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved Henley shirt like Sam Hanna favored. A coat was tossed over an empty chair at the table.

Harry rose and opened his arms for a hug.

"I'm sorry you're stuck in that stupid tournament," she said, "but I'm glad I can see you more because of it."

Harry laughed. "Silver linings, eh?"

"Something like that." She stood back and slipped her coat off, draping it over Harry's, before taking the seat he held for her.

The steaming liquid turned out to be hot chocolate, and Hermione savored the aroma before sipping at it.

She set her mug down with a smile, and said, "Where's Callen? Or Nell?"

"Callen and Hetty are in London, meeting with our solicitors," Harry replied, wrapping his hands around his own mug.

"Planning on suing the Ministry?" Hermione asked, torn between sarcasm and genuine curiosity.

"Among others," Harry answered casually, and Hermione felt her mouth drop open.

_Huh. That really happens to people._ She shook her head and frowned. "Why?"

"Did you really just ask me that?" Harry grinned.

Hermione bit her lip, thinking. "The tournament?"

"Everyone involved in entering me. We can't file the lawsuit until after it's over, but our solicitors are preparing to file as soon as they can afterward. Which brings me to why I'm here right now."

"Oh?" Hermione took another drink, its bittersweet flavor helping warm her as much as its heat.

Harry took a breath and met her gaze evenly. "I can't go to the Yule Ball."

Hermione's reaction was instinctive. "What? Why not?"

"I'd blame the solicitors, but Hetty's the one who brought it up." Harry took a sip of his own hot chocolate. "If our position is that I'm forced to compete against my will, then I should do only the minimum things necessary to honor the contract that nobody has a copy of. Participating in the tasks - with the intent to compete, if not to win - falls in that category. Attending the Yule Ball, which is not a part of the tournament itself, does not."

"Oh." _I will not cry. I will _not_ cry, and certainly not in the middle of Hogsmeade!_

"But." Harry sat forward in his chair and reached for her hand. "Keating has a Yule dance every year. I'm finally old enough to attend, so - would you like to come to that with me instead?"

Hermione's emotions were shifting so rapidly she was afraid she'd get some kind of mental whiplash. "I'll have to get permission from my parents."

"That's a yes, then?" Harry asked with a smirk.

"Of course it's a yes, you prat." Hermione gave him a mock glare, and he laughed.

"I didn't want to assume," he said.

"You asked me to go to a Yule ball with you," Hermione pointed out. "While we both understood you meant the one at Hogwarts, the invitation itself was not location-specific."

"See, even now, when I live halfway round the world from you, you're still tutoring me."

Hermione laughed. It was easy to be with Harry in ways it wasn't easy to be with anyone else - he understood her humor and wasn't put off by, let alone intimidated by, her intelligence.

"Would you like me to ask your parents about the dance?" Harry asked. "We can visit them before we go back home."

"That would be fantastic, Harry. Thanks."

"Great!" Harry said. "Now that's out of the way, how would you like to spend our day in Hogsmeade?

After concluding the meeting with their solicitors, Hetty announced that it had been too long since she'd shopped in London, and she had long overdue dates at Harrods and Fortnum & Mason, and would Mr. Callen care to join her?

No, G would not - despite the lure of having a high tea at the latter. The lure wasn't enough to overcome the thought of spending hours browsing for _things._ Sometimes, like now when her eyes lit up at the prospect of doing just that - it was hard to believe Hetty was Romani like himself.

So he wished her happy hunting and set off for northwestern London - specifically, a location a twenty-minute walk from King's Cross Station.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place appeared between Numbers 11 and 13 as G approached. The stairs leading to the front door were worn from generations of Blacks coming and going, and the door itself appeared somewhat battered.

Just as G was about to knock, the door opened - only it wasn't Sirius Black who emerged, but rather a wizard with light brown hair already flecked with gray, lines of care and stress etched in his face, and a too-thin frame.

The wizard had been moving quickly, almost running, but swerved when he saw G - or tried to. G grabbed the man's arm to prevent him from taking a header down the stone steps.

The man recovered, barked a gruff, "Ta," and was on his way before the door swung closed behind him.

G held the door open, debated briefly whether to knock, then decided that manners mattered, and tapped the silver knocker three times before stepping inside.

A great hall painted in a rich Chinese red lacquer with gold-tinted Chinese dragons racing each other down the walls greeted him.

Before G could register more detail, Sirius' voice came from farther along the hall. "Dammit, Moony - what did you forget this time?" The man followed the voice, and G closed the door behind him before turning to greet his host.

G grinned at Sirius and offered a hand. "I didn't forget anything, yet. I just ran into someone on the way out - Moony? - and let myself in, so I figured I should knock."

Sirius shook his hand with a bit of a grimace. "Moony - Remus Lupin. He and James and I were best friends throughout our Hogwarts years."

"The Marauders," G remembered. "You've told us some stories."

"I'm saving the best ones for when Harry's old enough."

Normally, G wouldn't pry into a man's personal business, but some instinct made him prompt, just a little. "You said you _were_ friends. Not anymore?"

"We're trying," Sirius said. "It's been a lot of years, though."

And most of those years, Sirius had spent in, "Azkaban."

Sirius shrugged. "I can forgive him for not coming to see me - nobody else did, after all. I can't forgive him letting Dumbledore keep him out of Harry's life."

"Dumbledore kept _everyone_ out of Harry's life, from what I hear," G offered as mitigation.

"Moony was the last of us - the Marauders. He was Harry's only link to his parents, and he blew that responsibility off, blew _Harry_ off. I can't forget that, even if I might eventually forgive him."

G cocked his head to one side, studying the man he was coming to call a friend. "As angry as you seem to be at him, I guess you're even angrier at Dumbledore."

"You have _no_ idea." Sirius gestured him along the hall toward the room he'd come from. "He'd come for lunch, and there's plenty if you're hungry."

"Not really," G said. "Tea's fine if you have it."

The room Sirius led him to turned out to be a dining room - with a table that would seat at least twelve comfortably - and platters of sandwiches and crudité clustered at one end.

"Dobby," Sirius called, and a house elf appeared, almost quivering with excitement.

"Master Paddyfooty calls Dobby?"

"Tea for Mr. Callen, please."

"Right away, Master Paddyfooty."

The elf was gone almost before he finished speaking. A moment later, a silver tea service appeared by the sandwiches.

"That's not the elf I met before," G said as he poured himself a cup of tea.

"Traded him for Dobby," Sirius said. "Cousin Narcissa's better suited for Kreacher."

G let that go. "How badly do you want to get Dumbledore?"

"On a scale of one to ten, I was already at ten when I found out he'd put Harry with Lily's family," Sirius said. "Now with this Triwizard Tournament crap - pretty sure I'm around a fifteen. Maybe even twenty. You?"

G turned his teacup - mugs seemed to be beyond the British, magical or otherwise - on its saucer, frowning at the steaming liquid inside as he arranged his thoughts. "Hetty wanted to crucify him when we were just mad at him for putting Harry with the Dursleys. Nell and I - mostly Nell - talked her down from it, pointing out that it was over and done, and Harry needed to focus on healing and basically becoming a normal kid.

"You call a kid who's attending a military school normal?"

G chuckled. "Aiden is, and Kamran's probably going to follow in his footsteps. It's not that unusual."

"We'll agree to disagree on that," Sirius said. "It's definitely abnormal." He took a bite of whatever sandwich was on his plate.

"Now, though," G continued, "this whole Triwizard fiasco - Nell's not going to be able to talk Hetty down this time. Or me."

"What are you planning, and how can I help?"

"I need a meeting with someone in authority - the minister, somebody like that."

Sirius paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth, staring at G. "The Minister?"

"Whoever's best placed for me to file an official complaint," G said. "Because I'm going to ruin him and then sic the IRS on him."

"IRS?" Sirius repeated.

"Tax collectors. Whatever they're called this side of the pond."

"Ha!" The sandwich fell to the plate, forgotten, as Sirius laughed, long and hard.

"Leave it to Hetty to come up with that," Sirius finally gasped out.

"That's all me," G said. "Hetty's got her own plans, and they're worse than mine."

"How could they be worse?" Sirius asked, then finished his sandwich.

"Because it's Hetty."

Sirius shook his head. "Remind me to stay out of the crossfire. I can get an appointment with the Minister. When do you want it?"

"After the second task would be good," G told him. "I want the danger of it fresh in his mind."

"Good," Sirius said, his tone amused. "It'll probably take me that long to get the appointment in the first place."

G chuckled at that, but sobered when he said, "Thank you - not just for helping with this, but for spending time with Harry when you can, and especially for the stories and memories of his parents."

"Getting to escort Her Majesty incognito is thanks enough," Sirius said with a grin just this side of maniacal. "Best prank ever. Besides - her younger self is hot."

"I will pretend I didn't hear that," G said with a responding grin, "because I wouldn't want to have to pass that along to my fellow monarch."

Sirius snorted. "Like being king of the Gypsies is the same thing."

"Romani," G reminded him. "And it mostly is." Then he set his cup aside. "I should get back to Hogsmeade to meet Harry."

"He and Hermione realized they're perfect for each other yet?" Sirius asked, too casually.

G stood. "No, but they're at the _best friends might make good lovers_ stage - though I fervently hope I'll be using _lovers_ in the figurative sense for at least ten more years."

"Ten? You're dreaming."

"Always ask for more than you'll accept," G countered. "Basic Romani principle."

Sirius laughed as he, too, rose, and walked with G out of the dining room and back into the entry hall. G pointed to a set of black drapes that had caught his eye on his way into the dining room.

"Even with magical enhancements to the house, that can't really be a window, can it?" he asked his host and friend.

"I wish it were," Sirius replied soberly. "But, alas, that is instead my mother's portrait."

"Covered in black."

"She's completely batshit crazy - and thanks for that expression, by the way, _so_ descriptive - and I don't want to listen to her insane screeching."

G considered that for a moment. "Pardon me if I'm asking the obvious, but if her portrait bothers you so much, why not just remove it?

"Permanent Sticking Charm," Sirius answered succinctly.

"Is that all?" G asked, grinning at his companion's dumbfounded expression.

"Nobody's been able to counter it," Sirius protested.

"Let me try?" G didn't wait for a response before he crossed the hall to the black velvet curtains and pulled them open.

Behind the curtains was a portrait of an old woman in a black cap. The portrait's eyes locked on G for a moment, and an expression of revulsion settled on her features before she seemed to focus on Sirius.

"How dare you paint the ancestral seat of the house of Black in the colors of _Gryffindor_?" she demanded. "Where is the Slytherin green, the sheen of silver?"

"I don't know," G observed. "I kinda like the burgundy and gold combination.

The portrait focused its attention on him with a sneer. "Filth! How dare you befoul the home of my fathers, you half-blood -"

"Not _your_ fathers," G said. "Your _husband's_ fathers. You're a Black by marriage, not birth."

The woman in the portrait sniffed haughtily. "I am a Black by birth _and_ marriage."

"Seriously?" G turned to Sirius and only belatedly realized he'd made the obvious pun.

This time, though, Sirius ignored it. "Truth, G. She's the daughter of Pollux Black, and the second cousin and wife of Orion Black."

"No wonder she's batshit crazy," G said. "Though inbreeding usually takes more than one generation for the effects to show up." He regarded the portrait again, addressing it directly. "Guess you lost the genetic lottery."

The woman scowled at him. G held her gaze without flinching. _Huh. So that's what Hetty would look like if she were batshit crazy. Or just evil._

"Begone from my house, you misbegotten half-blood!"

G couldn't help being amused. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Filth! Stain of dishonor on the House of Black!"

"That's a little better," G allowed, "but you need more originality. How about something like, _you jarring, troll-skinned buttock boil_?"

"Oh, nice one," Sirius said, a touch of admiration in his tone.

"Shakespearean insults are the best," G said.

The portrait glared at him through slitted eyes. "Not a half-blood then. Even worse - mudblood! Scum! How dare you shame my house with your presence!"

"As a point of order," G murmured as he studied the wards and charms on the portrait, "I'm not, strictly speaking, a half-blood or a mudblood."

"What are you, then?" the portrait demanded.

G had the pattern, now, and he looked up at the portrait with what Sam had once called his _most annoying - most EFFING annoying - grin_. "I'm worse," he said.

"How can you be worse than a mudblood?" the portrait actually sneered, and for a moment, G felt sorry for Sirius having to grow up with this … this … _witch_ as a mother.

In the face of her question, though, G just grinned like he owned the house. "I'm Romani."

That actually stunned the portrait to silence long enough that G could analyze and overcome the sticking charm on it and remove it from the wall.

"Here you go," he said to Sirius, offering the portrait.

After a surprised moment, Sirius took the portrait and tossed it aside, into a corner, angling his throw such that it landed face-forward into the wall, rather than facing him. His mother's shrieking could still be heard, but it was somewhat muted.

"How in the name of Magic did you do that?" Sirius said. "Nobody's been able to move it …" he trailed off, frowning. "Not that I know of, anyway, and probably never."

G shrugged. "Romani."

When Sirius' expression didn't change, G gave a small sigh. "You remember Cher's song, right?"

"I remember a lot of Cher songs."

"Don't make me sing it - Gypsies, tramps, and …?"

Sirius' expression cleared. "Thieves."

"Of course we're not - not all of us, and not all of the time," G said. "But stereotypes, even the unpleasant ones, have a basis in fact. In this case, it's that Romani magic doesn't work like wanded magic, and most wand-users don't have the first idea how to counter it. Or, in this case, ward against it."

Sirius nodded, and then his expression turned shrewd. G tensed, wondering what was coming.

"This place has been put under every security measure known to wizardkind," Sirius began, then stopped himself. "Your pardon. Every security measure known to wand-using wizardkind. It's unplottable, can only be opened by a wand -"

"So that's why there's no handle on the door," G murmured. "And yes, I felt the wards when I got here."

"And it was under a Fidelius Charm - at least until my mother died. Will you recast the Fidelius using _your_ magic? If wand-using wizardkind don't generally know how to handle it, that would make the house completely secure."

"Nothing's ever _completely_ secure," G said. "But that sounds like a few steps closer to paranoid than reasonable - and a lot of steps beyond routine or normal."

"You'll do it?"

"One question before I do." G waited for Sirius' nod before asking, "Are you going to live here? I thought you hated the place."

Sirius grimaced. "That -" he jerked his head toward the portrait in the corner "- was a lot of the reason why. Her being here, even behind the curtain, made it that much harder to get past the rest of the bad memories. And she was the reason I couldn't sell the place."

"Sell!" Walburga Black's portrait screeched - loud enough for them to hear clearly. "You would sell your ancestral home - how _dare _you!"

"Listen to me, you old bat!" Sirius all but shouted. "I'm head of the family now - what's left of it - and I will do as I see fit. Dobby!"

The elf popped into view. "Master Paddyfooty calls Dobby?"

"Find a place to build a bonfire," Sirius said, and G figured his own eyes were as wide as the elf's.

"But - Master Paddyfooty - it not being Bonfire Night tonight."

"Still a night for celebration," Sirius declared, then huffed out a breath. "Fine. It doesn't have to be a big fire - just big enough for _that_."

He pointed at the portrait, and Dobby nodded, his ears flapping wildly, before popping away.

"How dare you!" the portrait shrieked. "I am your mother, you ungrateful, blood-traitor -"

"I'll burn your portrait and dance on the ashes, you hag," Sirius informed it - though G suspected that wasn't as satisfying as it might have been, given that it was directed at the back of the portrait.

Then Sirius was once again escorting him to the door.

"If you do sell it," G said, "think about moving to the States. Harry would love it if you were closer. And we'll ward whatever place you get to hell and back - Romani magic and all."

"Tempting," Sirius said. "And now that the portrait's down … I'll consider it. See you at the second task? I'm looking forward to escorting Alexandra again."

G glared at him without heat. "Aren't you forgetting Christmas? Harry will be devastated if you don't come over at all."

"Oh, right," Sirius gave an exaggerated slap to his forehead. "Can't forget Christmas! Of course I'll be there."

At the door, G turned to shake Sirius' hand. "You painted the hall in red and gold just to annoy your mother, didn't you?"

"Well." Sirius' eyes gleamed with mirth. "Not _just_."


	10. Chapter 10

Visiting Harry in December always threw Hermione's perceptions off. Having Christmas when the temperature was still in the high teens - no, she corrected herself silently, the Americans were still using Fahrenheit, so the temperature was in the mid-to-high sixties - was absolutely wrong. In many, many ways.

That Hetty had offered to host her family, as well as Harry's immediate family, in one of her houses simply made the experience even stranger.

The Dovecote, as Hetty had called it when she greeted them, could have accommodated half again the house Hermione had grown up in, just comparing by size. The contents of the Dovecote were clearly collected by someone with a discerning, loving eye, and on this Christmas morning as she made her way downstairs to join the others for gifts and breakfast, Hermione felt woefully underdressed in pajamas and bare feet.

When she got to the living room, she saw that her parents, Callen, and Nell were already there. Her parents lounged in a pair of upholstered chairs while Nell cuddled against Callen on a chintz sofa, and they were as casually dressed - or maybe, not dressed - as she was, and she relaxed just a little.

"Happy Christmas, everyone," she said.

A chorus of "Happy Christmas" from her parents and "Merry Christmas" from the Americans answered her.

"Hetty's gone to wake Harry and Sirius," Callen told her. "And Sam called - they're about five minutes out. We'll have presents when everyone's here."

"Fantastic," Hermione said. "Is that tea you have, and where can I get some?"

Nell laughed and leveraged herself up from where she cuddled against Callen. "I'll get it. Just make yourself comfortable."

Nell was gone before Hermione could respond, and she sat on the floor beside her father, happy for the moment just to study the Christmas tree holding court in front of a bay window. No designer showpiece tree filled with single-color ornaments, Hetty's tree was filled with a wildly eclectic collection ranging from touristy souvenir-like ornaments to wooden ones whose paint had faded with age.

She was wondering how much staring she could get away with as Nell returned, a tray loaded with tea and coffee accoutrements in her hands. Callen sat forward and pushed aside a bowl of flowers to make room for the tray on the coffee table in front of him just as heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Sirius came into the room clad in a T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a woman's face and the caption, "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves." He scowled as he flopped down on the sofa beside Nell.

"Your Operations Manager is a menace," he told Callen.

Callen just grinned at him. "Tell me something I don't know."

"She had the nerve to wake me up with a Tickling Charm," Sirius said, and accepted a cup of coffee from Nell.

"Only because you were acting like a child younger than Harry," Hetty responded from the doorway where she stood wrapped in a silky dressing gown. "Refusing to get up and covering your head with your blankets."

"It's Christmas," Sirius said. "Nobody gets up early on Christmas."

"You clearly haven't had children," Mum said. "As soon as Hermione was old enough to know what Christmas was, she was up before the dawn."

"Sometimes," Dad said, "as early as half-three."

"Dad!" Hermione protested.

"I think that's probably the worst true thing I've heard anyone say about you."

Hermione looked up to see that Harry had followed Hetty into the living room, and her cheeks warmed, more from memories of dancing close with him at Keating's Christmas Dance the night before than any current embarrassment. "In my defense, I was four at the time."

Harry helped himself to a mug of tea and dropped to the floor beside her. "Someday, your kids will do the same thing to you."

"The curse of parenthood," Mum agreed, but she was smiling.

The doorbell rang, and then the Hanna family joined the group. They, too, were in pajamas, and Hermione could admit that Sam Hanna looked both handsome and hilarious in red pajamas with white trim and a Santa hat covering his bald head.

An hour and a half later, presents opened and a light breakfast consumed, Hermione turned to Harry. "So - I didn't want to ask last night, but have you solved the clue for the second task? I'd like to help, if I can."

Sam, Callen, and Nell laughed as Harry groaned. "It's in Mermish. I had to open it underwater."

"Really?" Hermione asked. "Do you speak Mermish, Harry?"

"No, but Sam does." Harry shot a grin across to Sam, who raised his coffee cup in acknowledgment. "He translated it for me."

"What does it say?"

Harry cleared his throat and recited,

_"Come seek us where our voices sound,_

_We cannot sing above the ground,_

_And while you're searching, ponder this:_

_We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_

_An hour long you'll have to look,_

_And to recover what we took,_

_But past an hour - the prospect's black,_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back."_

"That sounds - ominous," Dad said.

"It's also very bad poetry," Mum added. "At least to us. Maybe it's better in - what did you call it? - Mermish?"

"It's really not," Sam replied. "Mermish is hypnotic underwater, but it's because of the sound of their voices, not the skill of their songs."

"Underwater," Hermione said. She chewed on her lip for a moment as she thought. "Someone's going to take something of yours and hide it underwater."

Harry nodded. "Probably the merfolk village in the Black Lake."

"Named for Phineas Nigellus Black," Sirius put in. "My great-great-grandfather, who used to be headmaster of Hogwarts."

Hermione didn't bother to nod, or otherwise respond to Sirius' words. They were informative, perhaps even interesting in the right circumstances, but right now they were irrelevant to the problem at hand.

"But what would they take?" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "You don't live in England anymore, and they can't get to anything of yours that might still be in your vault at Gringotts London, so what would they take?"

"That's got us stumped," Harry said. "I can count things I would sorely miss on one hand."

"Just one?" Mum asked.

"My broomstick, the photo album Hagrid gave me, my father's invisibility cloak, the Marauders' Map Sirius gave me, and my wand." Harry paused. "Okay, six if you count Hedwig as a _thing_, which I don't."

"And you shouldn't," Nell said briskly. "That would be incredibly insulting to your familiar."

Hermione blinked. "That's it."

"What's it?" Harry asked, and she could see others at the table had the same question.

"You've assumed that _what_ refers only to _things_. If it refers to people, too -"

Harry swallowed hard. "There are a lot more people I'd miss than things."

"Like me, I hope," Sirius offered.

Before Harry could respond, Hermione said, "It's me. They're going to take me."

"Talk us through your conclusion, Ms. Granger," Hetty said in a tone that reminded Hermione oddly of Professor McGonagall.

"It's obvious," Hermione said, "at least when you're not too close to the problem. Harry's physical things aren't available to anyone in England, and only two people Harry's close to are. I'm a student at Hogwarts, and therefore easier to get to."

"They haven't asked us for permission," Dad said, adding, "Have they?" to Mum.

"No," Mum agreed. "But the task isn't until February, right? Maybe they're waiting until after the New Year."

Callen snorted. "Given how Harry was entered into the tournament without his knowledge or consent, Monica, I have to doubt they'd bother to ask you for permission."

"Besides," Sirius said, his expression grave, "you're non-magical. In magical Britain, nobody would think to ask you for permission."

Dad scowled, looking like he wished he could get the entire British magical world under his dental drill without benefit of anesthesia. "Just one more in a long list of reasons why we're moving out as soon as we can."

Something skittered across Sirius' face before his expression settled into a grin. "It's been pointed out to me recently that Harry would like it if I were closer to him. And now that the biggest impediment to selling my house has been dealt with -" Sirius shrugged, then grinned at Mum and Dad. "I may be joining you."

"You're moving here?" Harry's face lit with a bright smile. "Brilliant!"

Aiden Hanna leaned closer to Hermione and stage-whispered, "Three years, and we still can't break him of saying that when he likes something."

Hermione hid a laugh while Harry hugged Sirius.

Mum cleared her throat. "There's no way to make this sound anything less than rude, Sirius - but you're far more experienced than Hermione. Could you … volunteer?"

"Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, even as her cheeks flamed and she wanted to sink through the floor.

"It's true," Mum said, though her expression was defensive. "Sirius fought against Voldemort. He's accomplished with Transfiguration and Charms. He's a better choice than Hermione. And that's not just a mother's concern for her child speaking."

An uncomfortable silence fell, but Hetty broke it before it could become overwhelming.

"On the surface, you're absolutely correct," Hetty said. "And if circumstances were different, I'd be asking Sirius to do just that."

"What _circumstances_ do you mean?" Dad asked.

"All of them surrounding the Triwizard Tournament." Callen sat forward on the sofa, squeezing Nell's hand briefly as his movement dislodged her from where she rested against him. "Harry didn't enter that of his own free will -"

"I never would," Harry said. "Even if I'd heard of it before Hermione told us my name came out of the Goblet of Fire."

"Harry has to compete," Nell said, answering the objection Hermione knew her father would make before he asked. "Or, at least, we haven't found a way for him not to compete without losing his magic."

"The obvious conclusion," Hetty said, "is that someone entered Harry to kill him - or for other, equally nefarious, purposes. We -" she gestured at the magical adults in the room "- are, for lack of a better term, preparing for war."

"And you're talking about putting my daughter in the middle of it," Dad snapped.

"Not on the front lines," Harry said. "Never on the front lines if I - if _we_ -can help it. They're after me, whoever they are, not Hermione, and I intend to keep it that way."

"We all do," Callen said. "And I promise you, Hermione's safety comes second only to Harry's safety in this, and it's not second by much."

Dad's expression said that he wanted to be angry but was having difficulty finding a reason.

"That still doesn't explain why Sirius can't volunteer," Mum said.

"Because he has another role to play," Hetty said. "One that he is best suited to perform."

"I'd tell you if I could," Sirius said earnestly. "But I can't - operational security."

Neither of her parents looked reassured, and Hermione said, "It's all right, Mum, Dad. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that."

"And we're not being careless with her safety," Sam said. "She'll have more tracking charms on her than she can count."

"And an emergency portkey," Callen said. His gaze shifted to her. "That ring Nell gave you?"

Hermione rubbed her thumb over the silver ring set with a single round carnelian stone she'd put on her right forefinger. "This?"

"Sam and I will teach you the activation process - either verbal or touch."

Hermione jerked her thumb away from her finger. "Touch?"

Callen chuckled. "There's a specific tap pattern you have to use - just casually rubbing it isn't enough."

"Oh, good." Hermione blew out a breath, then glared when Harry, Aiden, and Kamran laughed.

"I'd suggest you wear it on your other hand," Sam said, "once you learn the tap pattern - you can practice on your bare finger."

Hermione frowned. "I've never heard of a portkey that had to be worn in a specific location before."

"It doesn't," Sam said. Unconsciously, Hermione straightened under his solemn gaze. "But you're right-handed."

"So?"

"You can't tap the ring if you're holding your wand," Sam told her. "And you'd better be holding your wand."

Hermione frowned. Beside her, Harry picked up a bit of wadded-up wrapping paper and threw it at Sam.

"Way to bring the mood down, Uncle Sam."

Aiden and Kamran laughed even as Sam sent a mock-scowl Harry's way. "That got old the second time you said it."

"Did not," Harry chorused with the Hanna children. Then he looked at Hermione. "I'll explain it later."

Hermione nodded, and thankfully the conversation turned to lighter topics. She settled back against the front of the sofa between her parents' feet and resolved to enjoy Christmas with Harry's family.


	11. Chapter 11

"I do wish your illusions came with physical benefits, not just a change of appearance," Her Majesty said.

G and Sirius had joined Her Majesty in one of her private rooms at Buckingham Palace. The second task of the Triwizard Tournament was set to begin in a little over an hour, and G wished he weren't working so that he could more properly appreciate the history - both in the place and the things in it - surrounding him.

Beside G, Sirius laughed. "If that were the case, Ma'am, there's not a wizard in Britain who wouldn't be wearing a glamour every night."

Her Majesty chuckled briefly at Sirius's comment before sobering once more. "Young Harry is prepared for his task?"

"As prepared as Sam and I and the rest of the team can make him," G replied. "And Sam's a SEAL, so that's saying something."

"A SEAL." Her Majesty frowned briefly, then her eyes lit with recognition. "Ah - like our own SAS. Special Forces."

"Yes," G said. "He's taught Harry a bit of underwater combat, magical and otherwise, along with diving, drown-proofing, and probably other things I don't want to have confirmed."

"And after?" Her Majesty asked.

G glanced at Sirius, who nodded encouragement, and focused on the woman before him once more. "The threat for after is relatively low. We believe the end of the third task carries the highest risk to Harry."

"That's not to say we haven't taken precautions for this task," Sirius put in. "Just as we did the first task."

"I understand. Harry understands, as well?"

"Yes, Ma'am," G replied, the courtesy automatic despite their mostly equal status. "Tracking charms that I placed, so no wand-user can cancel them, and subcutaneous transponders as well. Just as examples."

"I would ask if that's not overkill," Her Majesty sounded amused, "but Henrietta has been my friend a very long time."

"If it's all right with you, Ma'am, I'd prefer not to discuss the other precautions we've taken," G said. "I believe this room is secure, and that the people around you can be trusted, but I won't risk Harry's life on the chance that I'm wrong."

"Perfectly understandable," Her Majesty declared. She ran a hand down her dress, a vivid blue in contrast to the gray weather they expected in Scotland, then checked her reflection in the mirror one last time. "I believe I am ready, gentlemen."

"One last thing, Ma'am," Sirius said. "The crown - in case we're wrong and it's needed today."

"Of course," she said, and reached for a bell-pull.

Less than five minutes later, three men entered the room, one carrying St. Edward's Crown on a red velvet pillow and the other two obviously providing security escort for the crown. The older of the two security escorts gave G and Sirius a brief but thorough assessment, seemingly accepting their presence only because Her Majesty already had.

It was, of course, highly unusual for the crown to be removed from public display at the Tower of London for any occasion other than a coronation, but Nell's research, backed up by the goblins' own research, proved that the crown - specifically St. Edwards' Crown, with its arches, _fleurs-de-lis_ and _crosses pattee_ \- was the only way to enhance the Queen's magic at any place in Britain, as it had been crafted in 1661, before the Bill of Rights of 1689 and the official establishment of the Statute of Secrecy in 1692.

Given the arrogance of the British magical world in general, and Albus Dumbledore and Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge in particular, G had no doubt that enhancement would be required when Her Majesty had to act in her official capacity.

That Her Majesty would have to act in that capacity was, G figured, a foregone conclusion. The only questions were when she would have to act and what she would do when she did.

"Thank you," the Queen said as the crown was placed on its cushion on the desk where she stood. "That will be all."

"Ma'am." Each of the men offered her a nod before retreating from the room.

"I am ready, Mr. Callen."

G stepped forward and took the crown from its rest. Before resting it on Her Majesty's head, he said, "_Perfusorius._"

"Featherlight charm," Sirius murmured.

"_Inhaero ad eam._"

"Sticking charm, so it won't fall off," Sirius said. "Do you remember what to say to cancel the illusion charm?"

Her Majesty nodded, once. "I am Elizabeth, second of that name, by the grace of Magic your Queen."

"I probably shouldn't admit that tone turns me on," Sirius said with a leer. G shook his head at his friend's antics, but Her Majesty simply smiled.

For the last charm, G said, "_Procidat deceptionem._"

"Illusion charm," Her Majesty said as G's illusion settled on her and sixty years of lines in her face smoothed and her hair darkened to its original color. G almost envied Sirius his job of her protective escort to the tasks.

Almost.

"My lady." Sirius offered Her Majesty a bow, then looked back at Callen. "The Hogwarts gates?"

G shook his head. "Too many people will be apparating there for me to feel comfortable taking Alexandra there without checking it out first. The Shrieking Shack, and then a second hop to the gates, unless you would prefer to walk," he added with a deferential nod to Her Majesty.

"Why are we not traveling through the fireplace at Sirius' house, as we did last time?"

"Timing," G said. "Your last visit was also your first, so we allowed time for you to become somewhat acquainted with the magical world, including flooing to Hogsmeade. This trip - and the next - we're keeping scheduling tighter for security purposes."

"I see. Then I will decide how to proceed upon arrival at the - Shrieking Shack?" Her tone sounded as skeptical as G suspected she would ever allow herself to sound.

"I'll be delighted to tell you the story of it once we arrive," Sirius said. "Callen - will you take Alexandra? Your apparition is more comfortable than most."

G nodded. "You go first. We'll be ten seconds behind you."

Sirius nodded and with a moderate _crack_ apparated away.

"Ma'am?" G offered his hand.

"Sir." She smiled and took it.

A moment of being sucked through a straw later, G helped Alexandra recover her balance outside the Shrieking Shack.

"I believe I will walk to the lake," she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

When Sirius had offered his arm for her, G said, "I'm going to check out the stands."

"Harry?" Sirius asked.

"Sam's with him."

"Good," Sirius said, then gestured with his free hand. "This way, Ma'am."

Minutes later, outpacing the other two, G approached the stands, almost stopping in his tracks when he saw a giant screen hovering over the lake, positioned so that almost all the attendees could see it. The display was split into four quadrants, each of which currently displayed a test pattern.

"Eric," G muttered, and set off to find the man in question.

Eric sat beside Nell, their heads bent over the tablet computers they each held. If he weren't confident of Nell's feelings for him, G might have been jealous at how closely they sat together.

"Pretty sure that screen wasn't there the last time we were here," he said, breaking into their concentration.

"Right," Eric said. "But the task is under water."

"And?" G prompted.

"The Powers That Be of the tournament hadn't provided any way for spectators to see what's going on once the competitors go into the water," Eric said. "So, thanks to shrinking charms and an unmatched ability to interweave magic and technology, we did it for them."

"Each competitor will have a drone following him or her," Nell explained. "Eric and I will control the feed from here. Mostly, all four competitors will be on screen at the same time, but if something exciting happens with one of them, then we'll make that full-size."

"Makes sense," G said.

"You would think," Eric said. "But we had to fight tooth and nail to get them to agree. It wasn't until the Durmstrang guy -"

"Viktor Krum," Nell said.

"Right, him - said he'd seen something similar at international Quidditch competitions that they even began to consider it."

"Though I think it was the French competitor saying she thought it was a good idea that convinced everyone," Nell finished. "After her robe fell open and they saw her swimsuit."

"I'm sure that had nothing to do with it," G said with a grin. "However it happened - good work, you two. Though I'm not sure actually seeing what Harry's up against will be any better for my peace of mind."

Nell reached up to squeeze his hand. "He'll be fine."

G bent down to kiss her briefly. "Thanks," he murmured against her lips. "I needed to hear it."

"Ah-ah-ah!" Sirius' voice carried clearly. "No traumatizing people, Callen."

"If seeing two people kissing is traumatizing," Nell said with a glare in Sirius' direction, "there's something deeply, disturbingly wrong with you."

"Besides," G said, turning to greet the newcomer and his "date" as though he hadn't just seen them ten minutes before, "it's my mission in life to traumatize as many people who deserve it as thoroughly as I can. Sirius. Alexandra."

"Callen," Alexandra said, while Sirius just nodded and assisted her into her seat.

"Where are the others?" Sirius asked.

"Sam and Hetty are with Harry," Nell said.

"Kensi and Deeks are coming with Michelle and the kids," Eric added. "That's everyone, I think."

"What about Hermione?" Alexandra asked. "I quite enjoyed speaking with her at the first task."

"Oh. Well, that's -" Eric broke off and looked toward G.

"She's in the lake," G said flatly.

"In the lake?" Alexandra stared at him. "In February? The lake must be near freezing!"

"Nothing a warming charm or two can't fix," Eric said with forced brightness.

"Why is she in the lake in the first place?" Alexandra asked.

"Because for the second task, the competitors have to retrieve something that's been taken from them," G said. "And by some_thing_, of course, they meant some_one_."

"Nothing Harry didn't plan for," Sirius said, his tone as reassuring as it could be in the circumstance. "Nothing _we_ didn't plan for."

"Truly?" Alexandra looked from Sirius to G, and G nodded. "Do her parents know? Did they consent to this?"

"Truly," he said. "And yes, her parents know - but because they're non-magical, they weren't consulted."

Alexandra turned to face the screens - which now showed the competitors approaching the edge of the lake - muttering something under her breath.

G thought he heard, "We are not amused," and smiled slightly despite his concerns.

"Room for two more?" Sam's question rumbled through the crisp air, and G shifted to allow Sam and Hetty to take their seats.

"How is he?" G asked. Staying away from Harry before this task had been a difficult decision to make. Following through on it was harder, even though he recognized it was the best strategic choice given that Sam was Harry's primary coach and trainer and G himself was still the team commander for any operations that might arise out of the Triwizard Tournament.

"Calm enough," Sam said. "Prepared."

"And I, for one, am looking forward to it," Hetty said, carefully choosing a seat behind what looked like a pair of first-year twins. Second year, maybe, if they were both small for their age.

"Sit, Mr. Callen," Hetty continued. "I believe they're about to begin."

Harry strode toward the Black Lake flanked on either side by his uncle Sam and his godmother Hetty. Clouds filled the sky this morning - not clouds that would actually bring rain, but clouds that brought a dampness to the already-cold February morning.

The wetsuit he wore kept out much of the chill, but his cheeks and ears were rapidly growing numb. He could only hope that someone had thought to hit Hermione and whoever else had been taken as hostages to the competitors with a long-lasting warming charm.

Harry didn't want to believe anyone had forgotten something like that, but then again, he hadn't wanted to believe he could be entered in a magically binding contract without his knowledge, let alone consent.

"You remember the plan?" Sam asked.

"I remember that no plan survives first contact with the enemy," Harry replied. "So it's not so much a plan as a strategy."

"Excellent," Hetty said. "You know the difference. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, actually," Harry said, not entirely surprised when it felt like the truth. "You and Sam and Callen and the others - I know you've done your best to prepare me for this, and I think I'm as ready as I can be."

He fell silent, and two steps later, Sam said, "There's a _but_ in there. What comes after it?"

Harry blew out a breath. "I don't trust the people in charge of the tournament at all. Their security precautions were lax enough that somebody managed to put my name in, despite the fact that I live almost six thousand miles away."

"Closer to five thousand," Sam pointed out, "but I'm nervous about that, too."

"And then there's the clue," Harry burst out. "Taken what I'll sorely miss - they lied about it being a _what_. It's a _who_. I can't trust anybody involved in this tournament, or anything to do with it, _at all_. If it were up to me, I'd walk away… but Hermione's counting on me, and I won't let her down."

Sam's large hand landed on his shoulder. "Good man."

Hetty took a step forward, clasping Harry's hands in hers. "You have gillyweed?"

"Two hours' worth." In pouches at his belt.

"Dive knife?"

"Two." One large, one small - strapped to either calf.

"Excellent," Hetty said. "I won't wish you luck, because you don't need it. I'll just say, give 'em hell, Harry."

She hugged him even as Sam groaned at the reference. But when Harry stepped back from the hug, Sam was offering his fist. "See you on the other side."

Harry bumped fists with him. "See you."

Then Sam and Hetty were making their way to the stands. Harry's gaze followed their path to the stands proper, then scanned the crowd. After a moment, he found his family - Callen, Nell, Eric, Sirius, Sirius' date that he still hadn't formally met, and the others. He smiled at the sight of them, then focused on the path before him - the one that took him to the other competitors.

Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor were waiting for him, all wearing swimsuits with their wands ready.

Harry exchanged greetings with the other three and endured their open stares stoically. Cedric might not have been sorted into _Gryffindor where dwell the brave at heart_, but he was the one who cleared his throat and spoke first.

"Harry? What exactly are you wearing?"

"It's called a wetsuit," Harry said. "Non-magicals use them when they go diving in deep or cold water."

It was a simple explanation, but it appeared to serve, because Cedric nodded and turned to face the lake again. Fleur looked mildly interested for a moment, but Viktor simply sneered at him.

None of them mattered. Only Hermione, stuck at the bottom of the lake for no reason other than her relationship with him, mattered.

He wiggled his fingers and toes, rolling his shoulders to try to ease the tension that had settled on him like his father's cloak when Callen confirmed that Hermione had been chosen to be his hostage.

"Welcome to the second task of the Triwizard Tournament." Ludo Bagman's Amplified voice echoed across the lake and yanked Harry from his thoughts. "Our champions will have precisely one hour to retrieve what was taken from them."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides. _Lying sons of - Hermione's not a _what_, she's a _who.

"Thanks to a number of people here to show support for our fourth champion," Bagman continued, "you'll be able to observe each champion's progress during the task on the screen hovering above the lake."

Bagman paused, but there was only a smattering of polite applause, so he continued, "All right, then, champions - on my whistle. Three. Two. One."

The whistle echoed shrilly in the still, cold air.

With a glance at his dive watch, Harry strode toward the lake, pausing just at the water's edge. He transfigured his shoes into flippers, cast a point-me spell to give him a starting direction, then cast a Bubble-Head charm before taking two steps and shallow-diving into the lake proper.

_Shoulda cast a warming charm, too._

He still could, of course, but this close to the surface, the lake didn't feel any colder than some of the places Sam had taken him to teach him to dive, so he held off for now as he swam in the direction the point-me spell had indicated, his flippered feet propelling him forward through the dark water.

When his tracking charm told him he was directly above Hermione, he dove deep.

He hadn't gotten very far down before the water seemed to lighten, just a little, and he wondered if there were some kind of phosphorescent lichen growing in the lake.

Then he heard it - the faintest sounds of mersong.

The additional confirmation that he was, in fact, heading in the right direction prodded Harry to a burst of speed. The song resolved into words as he saw a large rock jutting up from the muddy lakebed. He barely noted the paintings of merfolk on the rock as he passed, but the words of the mersong chilled him more thoroughly than the lake.

_"…your time's half gone, so tarry not_

_Lest what you seek stays here to rot…"_

Harry's insides tightened. The original clue had implied - no, it had downright _stated_ that after an hour, what was taken would be lost, and now here was a second confirmation.

Another burst of speed had him aiming for the center of the village that he could just make out in the dimness.

In what would have been called a village square if it were a human settlement, a crowd of gray-skinned merfolk floated in front of the houses lining it, and a choir gathered at one side sang songs presumably designed to lure - or guide - the competitors to the correct place.

In the center of the square, a stone statue of a gigantic mermaid towered over the village. Four people were bound tightly to the statue's tail with seaweed. They appeared to be asleep, with their eyes closed, heads lolling, and fine streams of bubbles trailing from their mouths.

Hermione was bound between an Asian girl Harry recognized from his brief time at Hogwarts, though he didn't remember her name, and a girl who looked barely eight years old with silvery hair that reminded Harry strongly of the Beauxbatons champion. Her sister, perhaps? The fourth person was an older man that Harry had to assume was important to Viktor Krum.

A check of his dive watch told him that it had been eighteen minutes since he'd entered the lake - not quite the "half gone" of the song, but then again, Harry hadn't seen any of the other competitors on his way here, and he didn't see any sign of them now.

He did see a bunch of merfolk with spears - were they simply guarding the hostages, or would they attack? Warily, Harry swam closer. The merfolk allowed him to approach Hermione without incident.

Harry drew the larger of the dive knives and cut Hermione free of the thick, ropy seaweed with a bit of effort. He replaced the knife and drew his wand to conjure a harness to strap Hermione to his back. Just because he hadn't encountered much opposition on the way in didn't mean he'd have a clear egress, after all.

Once he'd secured the harness, Harry checked his dive watch again. Twenty-four minutes since he'd entered the lake, and still no sign of another competitor.

Part of him wanted to take Hermione out of the lake _right now_, to make sure she was safe and healthy. But that would mean leaving the other three hostages to their fates.

There was, really, no choice to be made. Reinforcing his Bubble-Head charm, he settled in to wait.


	12. Chapter 12

Thank God and Magic for Eric Beale. If it weren't for the screen and the drones tracking Harry's progress, G would be urging Sam to go in the water after his … son.

Son.

The word echoed in G's mind, the first time he'd acknowledged that feeling consciously, but clearly it had already settled in his heart. Just as Nell had settled into his life and heart in ways that he hadn't expected, so had Harry.

He'd have to make sure they both knew how he felt - but right now, G's attention was focused on Harry's progress. Unlike his fellow competitors, Harry had chosen to swim just beneath the surface of the lake - even without the screen showing his movements, G could _just_ make out the darker spot on the water that was Harry swimming toward the center of the lake. He didn't appear to be having any trouble, so G allowed himself to check the others' progress, just for a moment.

Hogwarts' champion, Diggory, had followed Harry's strategy and cast a Bubble-Head charm before entering the lake, but once in the lake, Diggory appeared to have no idea where the merfolk village was. He was currently swimming in a zigzag search pattern close to the lakebed floor.

The Durmstrang champion, Krum, had attempted to transfigure himself into a shark, but had only managed to transform his head. The rest of his body was still human, however, and that kept his progress relatively slow as he swam a search pattern, though not so close to the lake bottom as Diggory.

Beauxbatons' champion, Delacour, had also used the Bubble-Head charm, and had had the foresight to pull her robes off, revealing a silvery swimming suit that wouldn't drag her down, but she had gotten into trouble almost as soon as she reached the lakebed floor. A colony of some kind of water-demon - "Grindylows," Nell supplied, "native to the Yorkshire area" - had swarmed her when she encroached on their territory, and she was having difficulty holding them off. Her struggle meant that, for the moment, her camera's feed filled the entire screen.

"Oh, bad luck, Fleur!" called a redheaded boy sitting a couple of rows down from them in the stands, as though she could hear him. "You can take 'em!"

Delacour's struggle occupied the screen for long minutes, and G had to stop himself from grabbing Nell's tablet and changing the view to show Harry.

"He's okay," Nell murmured beside him, as though she'd heard his concerns. Then again, she didn't have to hear them; as Harry's other guardian, she shared them. "Diving toward the merfolk village, I think."

"Good," G murmured in return and turned his attention back to the screen and Delacour's fight with the grindylows.

A fight, he realized, that she would lose if she weren't careful - or very, very lucky.

The view on the screen changed, and G relaxed when he saw that Harry was approaching the merfolk village. He watched Harry arrive, free Hermione, and strap her to him with a harness he conjured.

"Why'd he do that?" the redheaded boy asked. "He's wasting time!"

"He's keeping his hands free," a dark-haired boy sitting next to him replied. "In case he needs to use his wand or a knife."

G smiled at the words - he must have taught the dark-haired one during his brief tenure as Hogwarts' Defense against the Dark Arts instructor, because that was one of the basics he'd drilled into them. Or tried to, at any rate.

The redhead - and a name tickled at G's memory… Weasley? That sounded right - groaned. "And now he's just sitting there. What the hell, Potter?"

The boy beside Weasley - and if G could see his face, it might trigger a name in his memory - gave an explosive sigh. "Isn't it obvious? He's making sure all the hostages are safe."

"But there's a time limit," Weasley protested. "If he waits for all the others to get there, they'll get back before him. He'll lose!"

"He's Harry Potter," the dark-haired boy said. "He won't care if he's the last one back if it means that all four hostages get out safely."

G blinked at the boy's insight and shifted position to try to get a look at his face, hoping to figure out who he was. Unfortunately, the person on the stands immediately below him shifted at the same time in the same direction, blocking any view G had of the younger wizard.

He'd just have to keep an eye on the boy at the end of the task.

"Hey, look!" Weasley cried. "There's Cedric!"

A cheer - presumably from the Hogwarts students in the crowd - went up as Cedric Diggory approached the bound hostages.

G watched as Diggory appeared to be talking to - or rather, _at_ \- Harry, gesturing over his shoulder. Harry just shrugged and offered Diggory the use of one of his dive knives.

Diggory had a knife in his pocket, though, and cut through the bindings of a dark-haired girl with Asian bone structure. With a last wave, Cedric turned away from the merfolk village, back towards the shore.

"That's how it's done!" Weasley shouted. "Go, Cedric!"

The dark-haired boy just shook his head.

"He doesn't realize, does he?" Nell asked, low. "The redhead, I mean."

"Doesn't realize what?" G asked as the screen returned to its quad-view mode.

"That Harry just made it about something _other_ than the time limit. Everybody can see _what_ he's doing, and most of them will come to the same conclusion the other boy did as to _why_ he's doing it," Nell said. "Harry just made this competition, at least this task, about character."

"We'd be proud of him, whatever the result, as long as he did his best," G said. "Now we have even more reason to be proud of him."

Nell grinned up at him, but a start from Eric on her other side sent her attention back to her tablet and her fingers flying over the surface, and G turned back to the big screen.

The image on the screen - Krum - made G blink once, twice, before he shook his head.

"I just hope he meant to do that," Sam said from his seat behind G.

"I didn't realize partial transformations are possible," Alexandra said.

"Possible," Sirius agreed, "but not usually on purpose, and they almost always require being forced back into human form even if they are on purpose."

"I'm very glad I never attempted it, then," she said, and G had to admire how she stayed in character. Hetty was right - she would have made an excellent spy.

"Ouch! If he's not careful, Krum's gonna bite that man's leg off," Weasley declared.

Krum might have done just that, G thought, but on the screen, he watched Harry offer Krum a dive knife. Krum took it, cut the man free, and headed for the surface - Harry's knife still in his hand.

On the screen, Harry scowled, and his mouth moved. G wasn't a skilled lip-reader, but given that Harry's knife came back to him, he suspected Harry had summoned it.

Was Krum taking the knife with him an honest mistake? Or had he intended to prevent Harry from helping the Delacour girl? G would probably never know which one was correct.

"C'mon, Harry," Weasley was - well, he probably _thought_ he was muttering, but G could hear him clearly. "Cedric and Krum have both got starts on you now - leave now, so you don't come in last!"

It was almost five minutes later before Harry swam toward the final hostage - a girl maybe seven or eight years old, certainly not older than ten - with his knife drawn.

The merfolk moved to intercept him, and what looked like an argument broke out between them. Just when G thought the argument would end in violence, the merfolk backed off.

Harry cut the girl loose, sheathed his knife, and kicked hard and fast toward the surface, holding the girl tightly against his chest.

The view on the screen shifted to the Beauxbatons champion. Delacour had managed to extricate herself from the swarm of grindylows, but she was clearly not fit to continue the task. A handful of merfolk approached and grabbed her arms to help her to the surface.

A shout went up from the stands, and G followed the various fingers pointing not to the screen but to the surface of the lake.

Cedric Diggory had broken the surface, his hostage in his arms.

Harry broke the surface, silently and wandlessly banishing his Bubble-Head Charm. The little girl in his arms opened her eyes to stare up at him with an expression of scared confusion.

"It's okay," Harry told her. "You're safe. I've got you."

The girl just stared up at him as though she didn't understand. Then again, given how badly Fleur spoke English, it wasn't hard to believe this little girl knew none.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice came from behind him, and he craned his neck to try to see her.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I think so," she said. "Why am I strapped to you, Harry?"

"To make it easier to carry you out of there," Harry replied, "especially after I cut her free."

Hermione shifted on his back and came into his line of sight as she peered over his shoulder. "Who's she?"

"Fleur Delacour's hostage, I think," Harry said.

"And you're carrying her because …?"

"Fleur didn't show up. Help me with her? I don't think she can swim at all."

"Sure, just give me a minute…"

Hermione's voice trailed off, and then Harry felt her moving around, shifting against his body and then away, and after a minute or two, she was floating before him, gesturing to the girl to get into the harness she'd just vacated.

The girl protested, in a language Harry didn't speak but thought might be French.

To his surprise, Hermione answered in the same language. The little girl's eyes widened, and then she smiled, and happily allowed Hermione to put her into the harness.

"Ready?" Hermione asked.

"Almost." Harry's wand slid into his hand and he cast a Bubble-Head charm around the girl. "Just in case. And for your feet -"

A moment later, Hermione's shoes had been transfigured into fins, and the two of them set off toward the bank where the judges stood watching. A double handful of merfolk stood with them, and it was only when Harry started to swim that he realized the crowd was cheering loudly.

Soon enough, they were stumbling out of the lake and into February air that felt colder because they were dripping wet. The Hogwarts matron - Madam Pomfrey, Harry thought - bustled forward, casting drying and warming charms as she moved. Then she was settling warm blankets around each of their shoulders and offering them Pepper-Up Potions.

"Gabrielle! _Gabrielle!_" There was no mistaking that accent. Harry looked up as Fleur Delacour bore down on them. "_Is she alive? Is she 'urt?_"

"She's fine," Harry said, or thought he did. Now that he had survived, even finished, the second task, his energy was deserting him in the mother of all adrenaline crashes.

"Ze grindylows," Delacour said. "Zey attacked me. Oh, Gabrielle -" Delacour threw her arms around the younger girl. "I thought … I thought -"

"I did, too," Harry said, more to himself than anyone else. He downed the potion Madam Pomfrey had given him.

"Here, now," Madam Pomfrey said, tugging at Delacour's shoulder. "Let's have a look at you - you've a lot of cuts and scrapes."

"Look after 'er." Delacour practically shoved her sister toward Madam Pomfrey and turned to Harry. "You saved 'er… even though she was not your 'ostage."

The potion was already working, and Harry managed a smile at her. "I had to at least try," he said. "The clue - well."

"Ze clue made it sound like ze 'ostages would die," Delacour finished for him. "Zank you, 'Arry Potter."

She kissed him twice on each cheek, and Harry figured the heat in his face had more to do with embarrassment than any warming charm.

Then Delacour turned to Hermione. "And you - you 'elped."

"Harry did all the hard work," Hermione said.

Delacour waved that away. "Still - zank you."

She leaned forward and kissed Hermione twice on each cheek as well. Hermione appeared to accept that with good grace, but before she could say anything else, Ludo Bagman's Amplified voice rang out over the lake.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "the judges have reached their decision. Based on what we saw on the screen provided by our American visitors, as confirmed by Merchieftainess Mercus, we have decided to award marks out of fifty as follows."

Hermione shifted closer to Harry, and he adjusted the blanket he still wore so that he could drape his arm around her shoulders and the blanket would cover both of them.

"Fleur Delacour demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm," Bagman continued. "Unfortunately, she was attacked by grindylows and failed to retrieve her hostage. We therefore award her twenty-five points."

"I deserved zero," Delacour admitted, barely audible to Harry over the applause from the stands.

"Cedric Diggory," Bagman spoke again, silencing the crowd, "also used the Bubble-Head Charm. He was the first to return with his hostage - although he returned one minute outside the time allowed. We award him forty-seven points."

A roar like unto a dragon erupted from the stands, mostly from the Hogwarts students, and especially, Harry noted, from the Hufflepuffs in attendance.

"Viktor Krum," Bagman spoke again, "used an incomplete Transfiguration, but nevertheless he was second to return with his hostage. We award him forty points."

This time, the cheering came mostly from the Durmstrang contingent, accompanied by polite applause from the others, and somewhat more enthusiasm from students Harry assumed were Quidditch fans.

"Harry Potter -" Bagman continued, and Harry's breath caught in his chest. Beside him, Hermione tensed, though whether with anxiety or anticipation Harry didn't know - "was the first to reach his hostage and would have been the first to return if he hadn't lingered to ensure all four hostages were safely rescued. He used a Bubble-Head Charm as well as Conjuration to assist him in rescuing not only his own hostage but Fleur Delacour's hostage as well. We award him the full fifty points."

Unsurprisingly, Sirius appeared to be leading the cheers for him, but that was all Harry had time to register before Hermione was grabbing him in a hug that was surprisingly strong.

"Good job, Harry," she said, then pulled back a little. "I never doubted you would, but still - thank you for rescuing me."

He smiled at her, but before he could form words, her lips were on his. He almost jerked in surprised, but he stifled the impulse and pulled her closer. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, but her mouth moved slowly, sweetly against his, as though they had all the time in the world to get to know each other as, maybe, possibly, something more than friends.

"Ooh - young love."

Harry broke away from Hermione, oddly pleased to see that she looked as annoyed at the interruption as he did, and turned to face the intruder with a frown that turned into a scowl as he recognized her.

Rita Skeeter, reporter for the _Daily Prophet_.

The woman offered a smile that seemed somewhat … _predatory_ was the only word Harry could come up with. "How about an interview? My readers would love to hear all about it."

It was on Harry's tongue to tell her to go away - or worse, if he were honest about it - but he paused, something Hetty had once told him niggling at the back of his mind.

"It is in the nature of my work," she'd said, "and Mr. Callen's, and Ms. Jones', to be hidden from view, working in - not secret, precisely, but certainly not well-known circles. You, Harry, have a different legacy, through no fault or intention of your own, and fame is its own kind of power. Use it well."

This might be one of those moments when he could use his fame well.

"You know what?" he said. "Sure - do _not_ touch me," he snapped when Skeeter stretched her hand toward him.

Skeeter jerked back, and Harry wondered whether it was his tone, or just the fact that he'd called her on her action in the first place. She composed herself quickly. "Now, Harry -"

"Cadet Potter," he offered as a correction. "And I didn't say I'd do the interview here and now - I still have to be cleared by Madam Pomfrey, and then I want a hot shower and a hot drink."

Skeeter was definitely unhappy at that. "When, then?"

Harry thought quickly. "This afternoon at four at the Three Broomsticks."

Skeeter summoned a smile. "I look forward to it."

When she was gone, Hermione poked him in the side.

"What was that for?"

"You're going to talk to _her_? She never writes anything but salacious gossip masquerading as news."

"I know," Harry said, then smiled at Hermione's dumbfounded expression. "Trust me."

"I do," Hermione said immediately. "But - it's Rita Skeeter."

Harry hugged her close briefly. "I've got this. I promise."


	13. Chapter 13

"You're sure you want to do this, Harry?" Callen asked.

"I don't want to do it at all," Harry replied, settling into a seat at the table in the private room at the Leaky Cauldron they'd booked for the interview. "But Hetty's right - rather than let them use my fame against me, I can use it against them."

"And you think now's the right time?"

Harry frowned at his guardian, even though there was no accusation in the question, just confirmation, considering his decision before he nodded. "I've got public opinion on my side right now, and there's no guarantee I'll survive the third task."

"Harry -" Callen broke off, his expression pained.

"It's true, Callen. We both know it." Harry twirled his butterbeer glass between his hands. "We're doing everything we can, but we all know no plan survives first contact. Anything can happen."

Callen blew out a breath and dropped into a chair next to him. "You're right. I don't like it, but you're right." Then he quirked an eyebrow Harry's way. "You gonna barbecue them?"

"Maybe," Harry allowed. "Depends how badly they irritate me."

Callen laughed, but broke off when the door to the room opened and Rita Skeeter came breezing in. "Ah, Harry -"

She broke off when she saw that Harry wasn't alone - but really, what had she expected? Callen had already called her out once for, in legalese, inappropriate behavior with a minor.

"Ms. Skeeter." Harry rose to greet her, held a chair for her a few seats away. She frowned at the distance, but then apparently realized she'd have a better view of his face from that seat than from the one beside Harry.

She settled herself and withdrew parchment and a Quick Quotes Quill from her bag.

"You won't need those," Harry said.

"But of course I will," she replied with a smile caught somewhere between clownish and terrifying. "How else can I be sure to get what you say correct?"

"I've got a Dicta-Quill spelled for accuracy by the ICW," Callen said, producing it and parchment of his own. "We'll provide copies of the interview when it's over."

Skeeter's eyes narrowed. "Copies?"

Before Harry or Callen could respond, the door opened again, and a skinny man who was as prim as Skeeter was flamboyant came in.

"Mr. Potter?" The man's accent was thick, but not so thick the words weren't clear. "Kristian Popov, with Bulgaria's _Magical Post_, here for your interview."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Popov." Harry rose and shook hands. "Have a seat. We're just waiting for a couple more people before we begin."

"Harry -" Skeeter stopped herself, began again. "Mr. Potter - I was under the impression you were giving me an interview?"

Harry grinned at her. "I never said it would be exclusive, Ms. Skeeter."

She scowled briefly, but composed herself almost immediately. "Who else are we waiting for?"

The door opened and Harry stared at the newcomer. She appeared to be his age, give or take a year or two, with waist-length blonde hair, pale eyebrows, and slightly protuberant eyes.

"Hello, Harry Potter," she said, then cocked her head to one side as she studied him. "That's strange. I expected you to have more of a wrackspurt infestation, but there are only a couple."

Harry blinked once, twice, but shook himself from his surprise to come around the table and hold a chair for her.

"Well, that's good news," he said. "Miss …?"

"Luna," she replied. "Luna Lovegood, for the _Quibbler_."

"Please don't be insulted by the question," Callen put in, "but aren't you a little young for a reporter?"

"My father owns it," Luna replied. "And since I'm already close to Hogsmeade - all I had to do was get permission to leave the school."

"It'll be dark by the time we're done here, probably," Callen said. "Harry and I will escort you back to the castle, if you want."

"Thank you, that's very nice of you to offer," Luna said, her voice a little distant. But she sat and allowed Harry to adjust her chair for her.

"Just one more," Callen said and, as though he'd cast some conjuring spell, the door opened once again to admit a woman somewhere north of Callen's age, if Harry were to judge, but she retained the classical beauty of her youth.

"Monsieur Potter," she said. "Camille Dipanda, with _Agence France-Presse Magique_."

"A pleasure, Madame," Harry offered. She didn't offer her hand, and before he could move to hold her chair, she had seated herself, brisk and businesslike.

"No need for quills and parchment," Callen said. "I'm recording the interview with a Dicta-Quill spelled for accuracy. You'll all receive a copy of the transcript when the interview's complete."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Luna Lovegood said. "Thank you."

"Let me begin," Harry said, "by saying for the record that I did not, knowingly or willingly, enter or attempt to enter, or ask, persuade, pay, or otherwise entice anyone else to enter my name as a competitor for the Triwizard Tournament. If there were a way I could get out of it without losing my magic, I'd take it."

"Most young men would be flattered to be chosen," Madame Dipanda observed. "To have a chance at fame and glory."

"Without meaning any disrespect, Madame," Harry said, "I already have an obscene amount of fame on this side of the Pond for something I don't remember."

"The Boy-Who-Lived," Luna said, her voice still carrying a distant, dreamlike quality. "It's more accurate to say the Boy-Who-Survived, isn't it?"

Harry didn't even try to conceal his surprise. This young woman had just shown more insight in ten minutes than any of his year-mates during all his time at Hogwarts. "Yes, it is. Whatever happened that night, I didn't do anything consciously. I was fifteen months old - barely saying _mama_ and _dada_ \- or whatever I called them. I don't remember."

"Do you have any idea who did enter your name?" Popov asked.

"No, I don't."

Hetty and Callen both had drilled a number of maxims into him over the years he'd been with them. One of those was, "Only answer the question they ask. Never volunteer anything in addition."

This afternoon, though, he wanted to guide the interview, at least a little, so he added, "I wish I did."

"Why?" Popov all but demanded.

"So I'd know exactly whose names to put on the lawsuit."

That appeared to startle his adult questioners, but Luna just nodded, her expression serious.

"You intend to sue?" Madame Dipanda asked. "But why?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Harry asked. "I was entered into a contest that could kill me. Reckless endangerment is the least of what I'd sue for - or whatever the equivalent is over here. I'd add them to the list."

"The list?" Dipanda said.

"Mm-hm," Harry said. "Along with Ludo Bagman, Bartemius Crouch, all of the judges, all of the ministers -"

"The _ministers_?" Popov looked about ready to faint. "Surely you aren't serious?"

"Deadly serious - just as this tournament is. All of them, in some way or another, have forced me to compete in this tournament. None of them have provided the contract rules that require me to compete. None of them even attempted to mitigate the situation."

"What do you mean, mitigate the situation?" Dipanda asked.

"They could have changed the tasks," Harry said. "Darts, perhaps - or a foot race. Anything that wasn't deadly. After that's done, then the true champions could have competed in a second tournament with the original tasks. Or they could have voided the draw and cleansed the Goblet of Fire before drawing three new names. My point is, they could at least have _tried_ to get me out of a tournament I didn't want to compete in."

"But you're in the lead, Harry," Skeeter said. "Rather commandingly, too, I might add."

"And I'm really very sorry about that," Harry said. Callen gave a cough that was probably a cover for a laugh.

"Sorry?" Three of the four reporters chorused. Luna just smiled a dreamy smile.

"Well, yes," Harry said. "It doesn't seem fair that one of the competitors who entered honestly isn't in the lead."

"Do you have a favorite, Harry?" Luna asked.

Harry smiled at her. "School loyalty would have me say Cedric Diggory, but otherwise I have no preference."

"That's very fair of you," Luna said with a smile.

Skeeter cleared her throat. "Speaking of your return to Hogwarts - have you renewed old friendships?"

"Some," Harry admitted. "But I hadn't really made a lot of friends while I was here before, so it's more like meeting them for the first time."

Skeeter smirked. "Do you kiss everyone like you kissed Hermione Granger when you meet them for the first time?"

Harry's voice stiffened as much as his body did. "That is not up for discussion, Ms. Skeeter. My private life is private."

"But you're a public figure, Cadet Potter," Skeeter countered with cloying sweetness.

"Ms. Granger is not," Callen snapped, and Harry was glad for the support. He wasn't certain he could hold his temper if Skeeter continued this line of questioning.

"She's been seen with Harry Potter," Skeeter said. "She's become public because of him."

Callen sat forward in his chair. "Ms. Granger is off limits, to all of you, except for _factual_ reporting of events where she's seen."

"That sounds like a threat to press freedom," Popov said.

"More a reminder that freedom of the press does not include libel, slander, or other derogatory reporting," Callen said.

"I have kept in touch with Hermione," Harry put in, more to throw the reporters a bone than anything else. "Since I left, I mean. She's the only one who bothered to write back."

"And your relationship with Hermione Granger?" Dipanda asked.

"Is between her and me," Harry replied evenly.

"Of course, of course," Dipanda said quickly. "Allow me to rephrase the question. Do you know why she was selected as your hostage?"

"I don't _know_, because I wasn't involved in the planning process. But I'd guess it was because I'm only close to two people in Britain, and she was far easier to get to than the other."

"The other?" Popov asked. "May we inquire who the other is?"

"My godfather, Sirius Black," Harry replied.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," Dipanda put in, "but you said Ms. Granger was _easier to get to_ than Mr. Black. What did you mean by that?"

"I mean that if they'd tried to kidnap him instead of her, they would've had a fight on their hands." Harry concealed a smile at the shock in Skeeter, Dipanda, and Popov's expressions. Luna Lovegood simply smiled.

"Are you accusing the tournament organizers of kidnapping?" Skeeter finally managed.

"Maybe not," Harry said. "But I don't know what else to call it when a teenage girl is taken from her residence and placed in deadly danger - without her parents' knowledge, let alone consent?"

"Are you suing for that, too?" Skeeter asked.

"I have no standing in that matter, so no."

"But - surely the organizers wouldn't hurt a child?" Dipanda asked.

"I can't speak to what they would or wouldn't do," Harry said. "But I can give you the clue for the task."

He pulled a slip of parchment from a pocket and handed it to Callen, offering a smile to the reporters. "I'd duplicate it myself, but silly laws in this country won't let me use magic outside school."

"Silly?" Skeeter actually looked offended. Harry gave her credit for being a better actress than he'd assumed.

"Silly," Harry repeated. "And discriminatory, too, but that's neither here nor there."

Callen finished duplicating the parchment and passed copies to each of the reporters.

"When you read it, you'll see that we were told - actually _told_, it wasn't just implied - that if we failed to retrieve what - not _who_ \- was taken within an hour, it would be _gone_, it _won't come back. _If you have a different interpretation than the one I came to, feel free to share it with your readers."

The reporters were silent long enough that Harry finally prompted, "What other questions do you have?"

"How are you finding life in America?" Luna asked. "Is it very different from here?"

"Oh, very," Harry said. "The magical and non-magical worlds are … well, not closer, really, but there's far more crossover between them than happens here."

"What do you mean?" Skeeter asked.

"I mean that it's not uncommon for magical people to live in the non-magical world," Harry said, "or at least to visit it. Non-magicals aren't looked down on."

"I wouldn't say that we look down on them," Skeeter said.

"Really?" Harry quirked an eyebrow at her. "I can prove you do in one word."

"What's that?" Skeeter leaned forward, her expression curious and severe at the same time.

"Muggle," Harry answered immediately. "The word means someone who lacks a particular skill and is therefore inferior in some way."

"No, it just means someone who doesn't have magic," Popov said.

"In the magical world, maybe," Harry allowed. "But in the non-magical world, the word goes back hundreds of years. And every magical born of non-magical parents who knows that meaning hears you say it and assumes you mean they're inferior."

"That's why you say magical and non-magical," Luna said, and Harry nodded an agreement. "That's very polite and considerate. What magical creatures have you found in America that aren't here?"

Harry laughed. "If I answered that in depth, we'd be here all night."

"The most interesting, then," Luna said.

"Hm." Harry sat back in his chair, thinking. "Coatl, maybe. Or thunderbird."

"Tell me about them?" Luna looked positively excited, and Harry couldn't help smiling as he began to answer.

As G had thought, when the interview finally ended, heavy twilight was fast becoming full night. So he and Harry escorted Luna up the path to Hogwarts, lighting their way with several _lumos_ charms.

When they reached the gates, Luna thanked them both, and G looked at Harry. "Do you want to have dinner with your friends tonight?"

Harry frowned. "What about maintaining my stance that I'm only competing under duress and therefore am doing only the minimum required?"

G smiled. "You still are - but accepting congratulations from your friends is the gracious thing to do. Besides, we're leaving first thing in the morning."

Harry eyed him shrewdly and, not for the first time, G found himself imagining the man Harry would grow into. With Hetty's, Sam's, Nell's, his own, and the rest of the team's influence, G wanted to believe that Harry would be the best of all of them. At times, including now, G could see hints of that man peeking through the teenager before him.

"You're up to something," Harry said. Beside him, Luna appeared to be studying the stonework of the Hogwarts gates intently.

Even as he smiled at Harry's insight, G was shaking his head. "Nothing you need to worry about tonight."

"You're sure?" Harry asked.

"I'm sure." G had always tried to be honest with Harry, and he wouldn't let tonight be different in that regard. "We'll talk when we get home. All of us."

Harry eyed him suspiciously again, but then appeared to give a mental shrug and turned to Luna. "May I escort you to dinner?"

The girl's smile was as bright as her namesake hanging overhead. "Thank you, Harry. That's very kind."

As the two teens strode through the gate, G heard Harry's voice. "Which house? Definitely not Slytherin …"

G watched until the darkness swallowed them up before turning to make the trek back to Hogsmeade.

As soon as he was clear of the Hogwarts wards, and before the Hogsmeade wards fully activated, he paused, breathing in and out to calm and center himself. When he'd settled into a light trance state, G summoned the magic that was his by birth and _called._

_Romani in Britain - I need your assistance._

He'd barely finished the sentence before Rauni appeared in a silent burst of apparition. She was quickly joined by a double handful of others, people G didn't know personally but recognized immediately as _his_, as kith if not kin.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "My ward - my heir - has been entered in the Triwizard Tournament against his will. We believe whoever put his name in wants to kill him - or worse."

A murmur ran through the assembled Romani, presumably wondering what _worse_ might be. G let them wonder.

"The third task will be June 24," he continued. "Since it's going to be held on Hogwarts ground, it's probable that he'll be taken away at the end of the task, whether by portkey or kidnapping by apparition."

"What do you wish of us, Sir?" Rauni asked.

"I need your eyes and ears," G said. "Whatever they're planning for Harry will likely require preparation. If any of you notices anything you find out of the ordinary, I want to know about it. Rauni, will you be my point of contact here in Britain?"

"Of course." She offered him a surprisingly regal nod.

"Then report to Rauni if you see or hear anything remotely unusual," G said. "She will pass the information to me."

One by one, the assembled Romani nodded to him before apparating away. After a few minutes, only he and Rauni remained.

"You will return to America?" Rauni asked.

"Between now and the final task, yes," G agreed. "I've chosen to give the United States of America my talents and my loyalty. That doesn't change just because someone decided to mess with my heir."

Rauni studied him intently for several minutes, long enough that G wanted to apparate away. Finally, she said, "You have given them your allegiance."

"They deserve it," G said.

"For now?" Rauni asked.

"For now," G agreed. He buried the thought of what it would take for America to lose his allegiance deep down. It was, along with Harry kidnapped and used against him, one of the things he refused to think about for long.

"Very well." Rauni inclined her head to him. "I will assist you as I can."

The morning after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, Hermione sat trying to eat her breakfast. Every bite, it seemed, was interrupted by someone wanting to know how she felt about being Harry's hostage for the task. Worse were the people who wanted details of what had happened - details beyond what they saw on the screen - and didn't believe her when she said she had no real knowledge of it because she'd been in an enchanted sleep until she broke the surface.

Mail delivery came as a relief, especially when a tawny owl she thought looked familiar landed in front of her. She took the letter from it - him? her? Hermione wasn't sure and didn't know how to tell the difference - and gave it a bit of sausage.

As the owl flew away, Hermione turned the letter in her hands, smiling when she saw the simple block lettering. Yes, she definitely recognized that handwriting.

She kept the letter with her, unopened, through all of her classes, and through dinner and getting ready for bed.

Only when she was in her bed with the curtains drawn did she whisper, "_Lumos_," and open the letter.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Somehow, writing this seems … important. It's the first letter to you since we kissed, and that means something. I'm not sure what, exactly (grin). Maybe that we're becoming more than best friends? I'd like that, but only if you'd like it, too._

_I told you last night at dinner that we're heading back to Los Angeles right away, so I won't see you again until the Hogsmeade weekend before the third task - but I'll be thinking about you every day until I do see you again._

_And kiss you again, if you'll let me._

_Let me know if the _Prophet_ or any other paper says anything bad about you. Callen and I told them you're off limits, except for factual reporting of events where you're seen. The public has a right to know, but the reporters don't have the right to libel or slander you._

_Callen's ready to go, so I'll see you in June._

_Yours,_

_Harry_

Hermione read the note a second time, smiling a little at Harry's awkward declaration of feelings for her. She'd have to write him back - or, more likely, call him this weekend - to tell him that she hoped they were becoming more than friends, too.

A part of her idly wondered if they'd be taking this step if Harry were still a student at Hogwarts, if it was a case of absence making the heart grow fonder, whereas if Harry had stayed it might have been a case of familiarity breeding contempt.

No, not contempt - she couldn't believe she'd ever feel contemptuous toward Harry. But certainly if they'd spent more time together, they might think of each other more as brother and sister than as … well … something more, even if she wasn't sure what form that _more_ might take.

She'd enjoy figuring it out.


	14. Chapter 14

When the world stopped spinning, Harry looked around at what appeared to be an alley with a frown. It was empty except for a red telephone box. "This isn't the portkey terminal."

"No, it's not," Callen replied easily. "We're at the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic."

"A telephone box?" Harry shook his head. The British magical world could be frustratingly stupid or stupidly frustrating sometimes. Then a question occurred to him. "Why are we at the entrance to the Ministry of Magic?"

"Because we're going to the Department of Mysteries." Callen blew out a breath. "Dumbledore told me a prophecy just before we left for the States. It concerns you."

Harry's mind seemed to stop as he turned Callen's words over in his head. Finally, he found his voice to ask, "Why are you telling me now?"

"Because when I talked to Dumbledore before, I argued that it was already fulfilled - that it had played out the night your parents died."

Unexpected tears stung Harry's eyes, and his voice was rough when he said, "My parents died because of some stupid prophecy?"

"No, Harry." Callen rested his hands on Harry's shoulders. "Your parents died because Voldemort chose to kill them. He may have chosen because of the prophecy, but it was still _his choice_. Remember that."

_His choice. Voldemort's choice. _Harry swallowed hard and nodded. He'd at least try to remember that. He cleared his throat.

"So why do you think differently about it now?"

"I don't, necessarily," Callen said. "But someone's after you, for some reason. I want to rule Voldemort out."

"But - first year. Quirrell?"

Callen gave his shoulders a squeeze and let his hands fall. "I don't know. But I do know it would be foolish not to check whether the prophecy's still active or not."

"Okay." Harry nodded once and took a breath. "So now what - we step into the phone box and turn into Superman?"

"Not exactly. We do have to step into the phone booth, though." Callen opened the door and gestured for Harry to precede him.

Callen stepped into the box behind him, slid the door closed, and punched a number into the phone. When a businesslike but pleasant voice asked for their names and the purpose of their visit, Callen gestured to Harry to answer first.

"Harry Potter, here to see the Department of Mysteries about a prophecy."

"G Callen, Harry's guardian accompanying him."

A moment later, the phone spat out two visitor badges. Harry checked them, finding one that read, _Harry Potter - Son of Fate_ and the other, _G Callen - Fate's Guardian_.

"Well, those aren't ominous." Harry handed over Callen's badge as the box started to descend.

"Whoever did the magic on it had a perverse sense of humor," Callen said. "I'll show you my collection sometime."

Harry stared at his guardian. "That sounds like a really bad pickup line."

"Fortunately for you, not only are you my ward, but I'm already taken." Callen grinned at him.

Before Harry could find a counter-taunt, the box came to a stop and the doors slid open, revealing the single busiest magical place Harry had seen in England. People came and went through fireplaces, and across the lobby, Harry saw a bank of lifts that led, presumably, to offices elsewhere in the building.

"Where do we go?" he asked.

"Security desk first." Callen nodded toward a desk stationed between them and the lifts.

They joined the short queue of people waiting to be cleared for entry, and soon enough the middle-aged security guard looked up, his expression clearly indicating his boredom with his job. "Wand, please."

Harry handed his wand over and watched the man place it on a device. A moment later, the device printed a slip of parchment. The man looked at the parchment. "Eleven and a half inches, redwood with a coatl scale core."

He put the parchment in a file with others like it and waved Harry toward the lifts before focusing on Callen.

"Wand?"

"I don't use one," Callen said.

"Uh -" The guard sounded so shocked, Harry turned back to watch the exchange. "What?"

Callen's face showed a patience Harry wasn't certain he could have mustered. "I'm Romani - I don't use a wand."

The guard's expression twisted into dislike. "Gypsy."

"Romani," Callen repeated, and Harry winced in unexpected sympathy as Callen's expression hardened. "Unless you meant to insult me?"

"I'm sure he didn't."

Harry turned to face the newcomer, a woman whose stern expression was only made more intimidating by the monocle she wore.

"Because if he did," she continued, "that would be cause for a written warning, which I would be happy to provide."

"Amelia," Callen said by way of greeting, and the name wasn't familiar to Harry.

The name was familiar to the guard, though, judging by how pale he'd gone. "Madam Bones. I didn't see you there."

"Which makes me wonder if a second warning is necessary," Amelia Bones said. "You're the first line of protection for the Ministry, and you just admitted your situational awareness … well …"

"Sucks?" Harry offered.

The woman's lip twitched, but she said only, "Could use some extra training. You'll be notified."

With that, she turned away from the guard and to Callen. "Are you going to make my life as difficult as you did the last time I saw you?"

"I hope not," Callen replied and fell into step with her as they made their way toward the lifts. Harry followed. "Today's just a visit to the Department of Mysteries. Harry's never seen it before."

Bones glanced over her shoulder at Harry, who smiled uncertainly. "It's not exactly a tourist destination."

"Harry's not exactly a tourist." They'd reached the lifts and while they waited for one, Callen lowered his voice. "I'll let you know if it's something you need to know about."

Bones nodded once and she and Callen made small talk until a lift to level nine arrived. Minutes later, the lift doors opened into a corridor with black tile walls that were bare except for torches casting a blue-white light along the corridor. At the far end, a plain black door offered the only other exit.

"Could they be any more dramatic?" Harry wondered.

"Probably," Callen said. "But I'd rather not find out how. C'mon."

Behind the black door was a circular room with twelve doors, all without handles or knobs, set in its walls. As soon as the door closed behind them, the walls started to rotate.

"Hall of Prophecy," Callen said, and a moment later, the walls stopped rotating and the door across from them opened.

The Hall of Prophecy was _vast_ in ways Harry couldn't even begin to describe. Numbered shelves full of small, dusty, glass orbs extended away from the door in either direction and stretched toward a ceiling he could barely see, and each one of those globes contained a prophecy.

Some of the orbs were dark - maybe a quarter of them, if the shelves Harry could see were any indication. The others glowed with a faint inner light indicating, presumably, that they were still active.

The sheer number of prophecies was mind-boggling, and for a wild improbable moment Harry imagined knocking the shelves over like dominoes. He quelled the urge - yes, that many prophecies might seem obscene, but he didn't know how many of them actually _mattered_ to more than one or two people, how many might impact the world.

His stomach roiled unpleasantly so he shoved that thought away. Clearly, he didn't have the mindset to work with such things.

A wizard - or maybe witch? Harry couldn't tell - in gray robes that hid both his body and his face apparently did, though, as he - she? - approached them. "May I help you?"

Even the voice was asexual and somewhat distorted, but Callen didn't seem to flinch when he said, "We're looking for a prophecy. Made in the summer of 2000 to Albus Dumbledore, concerning Voldemort and Harry Potter."

The shapeless blob summoned a book and paged through it. After a moment, he - she? - no, Harry suddenly remembered an odd old word Hetty had used once to indicate a person of unknown gender - _thon_, singular of _they_.

Thon closed the book and sent it back where it had come from. "This way."

Harry followed the other two past shelves numbered in the fifties, sixties, and eventually the nineties to row 97. Partway down that row, the cloaked figure stopped and pointed to an orb on a shelf just above Harry's head.

The orb had a label that read, "S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. - Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter," and Harry's stomach clenched tight when he saw that it wasn't completely dark. A pinprick of light gleamed at its center.

"Most unusual." Despite whatever spell distorted their guide's voice, thon sounded surprised.

"What is?" Harry asked at the same time Callen did.

"If it were fulfilled or otherwise inactive, the orb would be dark. If it were still active, it would be glowing," thon explained. "It's doing neither of those things."

"What does that mean?" Harry hated how fragile, how _young_ he sounded.

"Truthfully? I've no idea."

"_What?_" Harry almost shouted. "How can you not know?"

"Harry." Callen's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"What do you think it _might_ mean?" Callen asked, and the weight of his hand on Harry's shoulder was more comforting than Harry wanted to admit.

Harry had the sense that the figure shrugged. "If I had to speculate," thon said, "I'd think that the prophecy was mostly fulfilled. Or that it was fulfilled and something reactivated it."

"Schrodinger's prophecy," Callen muttered, and Harry laughed a little.

"Sir?" their guide asked.

"It would take too long to explain it," Callen said. Then he turned Harry gently so they were face to face. "Do you want to hear it?"

Harry gave him a puzzled look. "Dumbledore told you what it says."

"Maybe," Callen said. "Maybe not. As President Reagan said, trust but verify."

Harry laughed again. "He borrowed it from the Russians." Then he blew out a breath and turned to their guide. "All right, then. How do I listen to it?"

"Tap it with your wand," thon replied.

Harry glanced at Callen for reassurance, and Callen squeezed his shoulder again. Harry drew his wand and tapped the prophecy orb.

A woman's voice, hollow and echoing, emerged from the orb.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

"That's what Dumbledore told me," Callen said softly. He took a breath. "And I think I know why the orb's the way it is."

"Why?" Harry and their guide asked in chorus. Harry thought the guide's question smacked of desperation.

"The prophecy was made in July," Callen said. "And Voldemort attacked your family in October. Assuming the prophecy is about Voldemort and not some other dark lord, I think it was fulfilled that Halloween."

"But the orb would be completely dark if that had happened," the guide protested.

"Fast forward eleven years," Callen said. "Harry's at Hogwarts and finds out that one of his professors was possessed by the spirit of Voldemort. Voldemort, or some part of him, survived. And still does, because the prophecy is still somewhat active."

"You mean I cast Voldemort out of his own body?" Harry asked. "When I was a baby?"

"Yes. Or something was done to you that caused it to happen. In either case, you were the instrument of the action, if not the player of the instrument."

"That … makes sense," their guide said, sounding as though thon was working something out as thon spoke. "Casting him out of his body would certainly count as _vanquishing_ him, but until the spirit is finally destroyed, the prophecy remains semi-active."

Harry swallowed, hard. "So - how do I vanquish a spirit?"

"We'll talk about that," Callen said, "_at home_."


	15. Chapter 15

Unfortunately, their return home was going to be delayed if the small army of people waiting for them outside the lifts was any indication.

Beside him, Harry tensed, but G kept himself relaxed, ready for action as he scanned the people before him. He recognized Amelia Bones, of course, and recalled from Nell's briefing packets that the man in the bowler hat was the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. He didn't recognize the toad-like woman in the bright pink sweater that was all but glued to Fudge's right side. Three aurors completed the group.

"Problem, Lia?" G asked, keeping his tone mild.

"Not with me," she countered. "Minister Fudge and Undersecretary Umbridge, however, are a bit cross."

"Oh?" G asked. "I'm sorry to hear that. I understand the last time London was _a bit cross _was during the Blitz."

Beside him, Harry choked on a laugh and tried to conceal it with a cough.

"What is the meaning of _this_?" Fudge demanded, thrusting a sheaf of papers at him.

G could just make out the _Daily Prophet_ logo and beneath it, a headline and subhead:

_Boy Who Sues_

_Potter to Sue Everyone Involved in Triwizard Tournament_

G shrugged. "That's pretty much what Harry said during the interview."

Beside him, Harry sounded equally nonchalant. "At least they got it right. They don't always."

Fudge's ruddy complexion got even redder. "How dare you sue the Ministry?"

"How dare you allow an unwilling, underage competitor in a deadly tournament?" G countered. "You didn't protest, you didn't do anything to stop it. You're as culpable as anyone else."

"The minister," Pink Sweater - Umbridge? - began in a saccharine voice that made G want to reach for some insulin even though he wasn't diabetic, "has nothing to do with the Tournament, other than perhaps presenting the trophy to the eventual winner. It's handled through the Department of Magical Games and Sport and the Department of International Magical Cooperation."

"Both of whom report to the Minister for Magic," G countered. "While I grant you that he may not be directly involved in organizing the tournament, he hasn't protested an underage competitor much less offered an apology for the circumstance. Whether that's sufficient for liability to lie is for the courts to decide."

Umbridge smiled. "You can't think the Wizengamot will find the minister guilty?"

G matched her smile. "You can't think we're filing suit in Britain? The International Wizarding Court is the proper venue, given that it's an international competition."

Huh. G hadn't known complexions could go from apoplectic red to ghost white in under three seconds, but two of the people across from him had just proven they could.

He waited, but when neither Fudge nor Umbridge spoke, looked at Amelia. "Anything else, Lia?"

"Not for me," she replied.

"See you at the third task?" G asked.

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Still not the portkey terminal," Harry muttered when he emerged from the floo behind Callen, only to find himself at the Leaky Cauldron.

"Nope," Callen said cheerfully. "We have an appointment with our solicitors."

"Are we going home any time this month, let alone this year?"

Callen laughed. "After a stop at Gringotts and the meeting with the solicitors, we're heading back. I promise. Well, maybe after lunch, too, but that's it. Something wrong?"

"It's just -" Harry shrugged as he followed Callen from the Leaky Cauldron into non-magical London. "I feel like I lied to Hermione about it."

"You did - for a good reason."

"What reason is that?"

"Misdirection. Not much, granted, after that confrontation at the Ministry - but if anyone asks her, she can truthfully tell them you said you were going home early. They wouldn't be looking for you here."

"But the Minister found us anyway," Harry said.

"More like the security guard told him we were there, but yes." Callen didn't seem concerned. "No plan survives first contact, and all that."

Harry shot him a glare as they approached a Tube station. "You're a lot more relaxed than you were before."

"Because now I have an idea what's going on. And how to handle it."

Following G and Harry's return, the whole team congregated at the Dovecote for Sunday brunch. Hetty had reluctantly agreed that her house was the best place for a meeting that did not, strictly speaking, involve NCIS.

G met each of their gazes in turn - Harry. Kensi. Deeks. Eric. Sirius. Nell. Sam. Hetty. They were a solid team, despite the new additions of Harry and Sirius, and had gotten through the first two tasks admirably. Now it was time to plan for the third.

"What have you learned, Mr. Callen?" Hetty asked, her simple question focusing his thoughts.

"Learned? Not as much as I would've liked," G admitted. "But extrapolating from what I did learn, I think Harry's going to be taken during or after the third task."

"Lay it out for us, G," Sam said. "Why?"

"The prophecy Dumbledore told me when we were first bringing Harry to the States is active. Just barely, but it's active."

"So Voldemort isn't dead," Hetty said.

"Assuming that's the dark lord the prophecy refers to, no," G agreed. "But he is mostly dead - just a spirit floating around. He possessed Professor Quirrell while I was at Hogwarts. Harry and I ended up killing Quirrell, but I watched a cloud escape from the body before he died."

"Because that's not horrible," Deeks muttered. "But it's a spirit, right? He can't actually hurt anyone as a spirit, can he?"

"No, but he can possess someone," Kensi said. "Like he did that professor. Right?"

"Yes, but possessions are chancy things," G said.

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Because even if the host is willing," Sirius said, "the spirit is a parasite, and not a benign one. The longer the spirit remains in the host, the weaker the host will become. He'll need extreme measures just to maintain the possession, let alone try to take over Britain again."

"Extreme measures?" Deeks looked disturbed. "Do I want to know?"

"Unicorn blood," Harry said, and G watched him flush as everyone turned to him. "What?"

"Why do you suggest unicorn blood, Harry?" Hetty asked.

"Because, when I was at Hogwarts, I remember hearing Hagrid talk about something in the Forbidden Forest that was killing unicorns," Harry said. "And I learned in Potions last year that unicorn blood can be used in restorative potions, including physical and magical replenishment."

"Unicorn blood would do it," G agreed. "But getting back to the point - which is that if Voldemort's spirit is lingering - not his ghost, but his spirit - he'll need a body. A permanent body."

"How does that get us to Harry being kidnapped during or after the third task?" Kensi asked.

"Because the most common resurrection rituals are enhanced by a human sacrifice," Sirius said, his expression growing horrified. "And Harry is both powerful magically and marked as Voldemort's enemy. Who else would he sacrifice, if he had a choice?"

"But why go to all this trouble?" Deeks asked. "Getting Harry into the tournament, kidnapping him at the end of it, seems, well, too complicated."

"He had to lure Harry to Britain," G said, "because nobody knows exactly where he is. And even if Voldemort - or his supporters - knew where Harry is, they don't have the manpower to take him from us by force."

"What's the plan, G?" Sam asked.

"Harry competes, and the rest of us prepare for him to be taken at any time." Those words caused a sea of frowns and scowls to appear. G didn't like it, but, "There's no other choice. We have the same problem operating over there that Voldemort does over here. But we know it's coming, and forewarned is forearmed. Harry gets taken, and we fix his location with tracking devices and apparate or portkey to him, kick ass and chew bubble gum."

"Who's _we_ in that instance, Callen?" Sirius said.

G grinned. "The four of us, and a squad of goblin warriors."

He'd expected the shocked expressions, Kensi's "Oh," of surprise. He hadn't expected Deeks to literally fall out of his chair.

"Goblin warriors?" Deeks looked up at him from where he sprawled on Hetty's carpet. "How the hell did you manage that?"

"Goblins and Romani have an … interesting relationship," G said. "And after the crap with Harry's guardianship a few years ago, they're more than happy to help him this time."

While the rest of the team digested that, G crossed to where Harry sat beside Nell and sat on the coffee table before them.

"This is going to be hard, Harry," he said. "Because if the prophecy is correct, you'll have to kill Voldemort. Killing's never an easy thing."

G watched Harry swallow as he processed that. Finally, Harry said, "I - I think I've always known that it would be him or me. At least I figured that out after Quirrell. I'll do what I have to do."

Nell put her arms around Harry, holding him as she said, "And we'll be there to help you through it afterward."

The rest of February passed uneventfully, as did March, April, and May. The only thing of note during those few months was that Callen and Nell took Harry to New Orleans as a kind of spring break. They invited Hermione's family to join them, but the Grangers had plans to attend a family wedding instead.

Hermione's absence meant the trip was less fun than it could have been, but Dwayne Pride, Christopher LaSalle, and the rest of the New Orleans Residential Unit of NCIS had gone all out to show Harry both the magical and non-magical sides of their city, and the trip was one of the highlights of Harry's life in the United States so far.

Then it was back to Los Angeles and more training - specifically hand-to-hand combat and pistol training, taught by Sam and Callen.

"You're going against wizards with lots more experience than you," Sam said one afternoon at the NCIS shooting range. They'd commandeered it for half an hour a day so Harry could practice. "Play to your strengths, not theirs."

"Which doesn't mean we're ignoring magic completely," Callen said. "Just shifting focus. We're going to drill you in a few spells, not more than ten, until you can do them in your sleep. Or at least wandlessly or silently."

"Cutting and piercing charms, bludgeoning curse," Sam said. "Explosive curse. Summoning charm. Tripping jinx. Healing charm, maybe. We're still working out the final lineup."

"And … Voldemort?" Harry asked.

"Silencing charm for him, for sure," Sam said seriously. "No need for a villain monologue if we can avoid it."

Harry had to laugh at that, however unwillingly.

Then Callen came forward and rested both hands on Harry's shoulders. "If Sam and I could take care of him for you, we would."

"But the prophecy won't let you." Harry hated how small his voice sounded. He made an effort to strengthen it when he added, "Which means I … have to kill him."

"I wish you didn't," Callen said, and behind Callen, Sam's expression showed the same sentiment. "Killing someone isn't easy, even when you know - you _know_ \- deep in your heart, your bones, your soul, that there is no other alternative."

"I -" Harry swallowed. "I don't know if I can. Even knowing that it's _Voldemort_ and he killed my parents and tried to kill me."

Sam came forward. "Nobody _knows_ until the time comes."

"What if I can't?" Harry blinked back tears. Neither Callen nor Sam would think less of him if he cried, but he knew if he started, he might not stop.

"Then we'll think of something else," Callen said, his tone firm and unwavering. "Sam and I may not be able to kill Voldemort, but we can sure as hell contain him."

Harry gave a laugh that was mostly a groan. "How do you _contain_ someone like Voldemort?"

"Portkey him to the top of Mt. Everest," Callen said.

"But you've never been to the top of Everest," Harry said. Then he frowned. "Have you?"

"No," Callen admitted, "but Hetty has. She can make the portkey."

"Or, better, portkey him to the moon," Sam said. "All it would take is a visit to one of the surviving Apollo astronauts and a little legilimency, and you have what you need."

"Both of those," Harry began uncertainly, "sound rather worse than just killing him."

"They are," Callen admitted readily. "But both of them are still more merciful than Voldemort would ever be to anyone else."

"All of which is to say," Sam concluded, "that there are backup plans. Redundant backup plans, even."

Callen snorted. "It's Hetty. Her redundant backup plans have redundant backup plans."

Harry smiled, just a little. "I'm telling her you said that."

Callen grinned back. "Like she wouldn't agree?"


	16. Chapter 16

Keating's school year ended in early June. After discussing his studies with Callen, Nell, and Sam, Harry decided to take the end-of-year exams as if he'd been a full-time student the entire year. If he failed an exam, at least he'd know where to focus his summer review to catch up.

When he put down his pencil after the last exam, Harry thought he'd done reasonably well on them - certainly passed them all, at least, even if not with all As.

After that, it was two solid weeks of training, though Sam and Callen didn't push him hard enough to exhaust him. Just steady drills in chain casting and target practice - while on the run, because as Sam said, "In the field, you won't necessarily have time to take a ready stance and brace yourself."

The weekend before the third task was a Hogsmeade weekend, and Callen agreed readily enough to decamping to Scotland for those final days, not only so they'd have time to acclimate, but also to give him a chance to meet with their solicitors and get whatever information the Romani might have for him.

Harry planned to spend as much of the weekend with Hermione as he could, and Callen agreed wholeheartedly with that, only asking, "Do I need to cast a contraceptive charm?"

Even now, sitting in the Three Broomsticks waiting for Hermione, the memory of the question made Harry's face heat. Worse, though, were his stuttering denials.

At least Callen hadn't laughed, hadn't even smiled, because either of those would have made Harry's mortification worse. Callen had just said, "Let me know when I do," and gone on about his day.

Hermione's arrival brought him out of his reverie, and he stood and crossed the room to greet her, only mildly surprised that in addition to her trademark hug, she kissed him gently before slipping her arm through his.

"So," she said, "what do you have in mind for today?"

"Tomes and Scrolls, of course," Harry said, and smiled when she did. "And any errands you might have. And -" he blew out a breath. "And before we do either of those, I want to talk to you, somewhere we can't be overheard."

"Because a silencing charm is right out?" Hermione asked.

Harry considered her question. "Along with a glamour, maybe. I'd rather not be interrupted repeatedly by … well."

"Fans. Well-wishers."

"Pretty much," Harry said. "Along with gossips, busybodies, and the like."

Hermione laughed softly. "Pretty much _anyone_, you mean."

"Well - yes." Harry grinned back, and moments later he had cast the glamour, she had cast the silencing charm, and they were walking down Hogsmeade's high street arm in arm.

They'd passed four storefronts before Hermione's curiosity got the better of her. "What did you want to talk about, Harry?"

There was no use putting off answering. She'd get the answer out of him anyway, and the longer it took, the more irritated she'd become. He didn't need her irritated for this conversation. "The third task. And what comes after."

She frowned at him. "After?"

"After." Harry took a breath. "In the best case, I win, free and clear, and we all go out and have a party after."

Hermione's hand tensed against his arm. "And the worst case?"

"Voldemort kills me."

Hermione stopped, turning to face him. "_Harry_."

He offered her a small, sad smile. "We know someone entered me. We assume that person wants me dead. The only thing worse than being killed immediately is being used in some dark ritual and then being killed. The list of people annoyed with me, even angry with me, is rather long, I'm sure. But the list of people who actively want me dead or worse? That's quite short, and we both know which name is at the top of that list."

"But - you killed him during your first year," Hermione whispered.

"We think so, but we could be wrong," Harry said. "And I sure don't know - I passed out before everything ended. Therefore - Voldemort using me in a ritual and then killing me would be the worst case."

"O-okay," Hermione said, her voice catching on the simple word. Then she drew a steadying breath and as Harry guided them to walking down the street once more, she said, "So what about after?"

"In the best case, we go out and have a party."

"And - the worst case?"

Harry hated how small Hermione's voice sounded when she asked, but this was something he had to talk about, and with the third task only a few days away, there would be no other, let alone better, time to do so.

"In the worst case," Harry began carefully, "Nell and Callen will get you and your family to the States immediately."

Hermione's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open - not much, maybe a quarter of an inch, but open nonetheless. "No, Harry."

"Yes, Hermione," Harry said firmly. "You're my girlfriend, and everyone knows it. If Voldemort kills me, he'll go after you next. He might even use your parents to get to you. If I die, Callen's team will get you to the States, to safety."

Hermione stopped them once again and turned a troubled expression to him. "This matters to you a lot, doesn't it?"

Harry nodded and drew a shaky breath. "Knowing that you'll be safe - that's everything to me, Hermione. _Everything_."

"Harry." Hermione glanced around, then tugged him against the nearest storefront - the Hogsmeade Post Office, as it happened - and proceeded to give him a very thorough kiss.

When the kiss finally ended, Hermione rested her forehead against Harry's. "I'd fight beside you if I could."

"I know," Harry replied. "I'd raze this entire country to save you."

"I know."

G was still smiling at the memory of Harry's expression after he'd offered a contraceptive charm. _Was I ever that easily embarrassed? …. Maybe._ He wouldn't tease Harry too much - he'd get enough of that from Sam, Aiden, Deeks, and his peers at Keating. G resolved to be the concerned parent … and to ask Nell if she'd have the sex talk with Harry.

June in Hogsmeade was still chilly - not quite cool enough for an extra layer, but cool enough that he walked quickly as he made his way through relatively busy streets to Rauni's shop, the Gypsy Seer.

G winced at the name but had to admit, at least privately, that the Romani Seer didn't sound nearly as exotic, and therefore would draw far fewer customers.

He pushed open the heavy oaken door to the shop and stepped inside. He moved to one side of the door and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. Candles floated around the perimeter of the tiny shop, showcasing the wares on display - crystal balls, tarot decks and other oracle cards, pendulums, and guidebooks to popular forms of divination.

A young woman, possibly not out of her teens, looked up from where she sat behind the counter near the cash drawer. "May I help you?" Then her eyes widened in recognition. "Sir."

"Rauni asked for me?" G said.

"Nana's with a client," the girl said. "She shouldn't be much longer. Unless you need me to get her straight away?"

"No, I can wait," G assured her. "Thank you …?"

"Kezia." The girl smiled and offered him a slight curtsy before looking behind him. "Your ward - pardon me, son - isn't with you?"

"Not with me here," G said, "but he's in Hogsmeade."

"We'd like to meet him," Kezia said. "Seeing as how he'll be our king after you."

"Assuming he survives the tournament," G said. And he had to assume that, for his own sanity. "Assuming he survives, we'll visit all the enclaves - starting with this one."

Kezia smiled broadly. "We'll look forward to it, my lord."

With a nod, G turned to browse the offerings more thoroughly. Despite his heritage and his status within the Romani culture, most forms of divination didn't work for him at all. Once in a while, he could glean some insight from an oracle card, tarot or otherwise, but generally speaking, he was blind to the future.

_And maybe that's how it should be. Maybe kings aren't meant to know what their actions might bring_.

Still, in idle moments, he sometimes browsed shops such as this one - Romani-owned or otherwise - on the off chance that some deck, some pendulum, something, might call to him.

Nothing in the Gypsy Seer had called to him by the time the door to the back room opened and a wizard came out, offering profuse thanks to whoever remained in the room - presumably Rauni.

Only when the shop door had closed behind the wizard did G hear Rauni's voice. "Come in, my lord."

G crossed the shop and entered the room - only slightly more dim than the outer shop - and closed the door behind him. Without waiting to be invited, he took a seat opposite where Rauni sat at a low table, a crystal ball nearly a foot in diameter resting on the table between them.

"Thank you for all your efforts," G began.

"You are most welcome, my lord - though I wish I could have done more."

"You did all I could have expected," G assured her. "But I understand you have more for me today?"

"A rather unusual report from some Travelers near Little Hangleton."

G didn't even try to hide his surprise. "Travelers? Not Romani?"

Rauni shrugged. "They don't share our heritage, but they do share our lifestyle. We've an … alliance, of sorts, with them."

Unusual, but not as surprising as G had first thought. He allowed - was _required_ to allow - his people the freedom to live their lives as they chose except in times of emergency, after all. "What report?"

"Unusual activity in a cemetery there," Rauni said. "It appears they are preparing for a ritual of some kind."

"A ritual," G repeated, his tone flat. "There are very few rituals that require a cemetery - none of them good."

"Once the man, or men, left, the Travelers compiled a list of names on the gravestones nearest to where they were setting up." Rauni removed a slip of parchment from the folds of her skirt and offered it to him.

G took it readily enough. "And what do the Travelers want in return for their assistance?"

"Your presence and participation in a Spring renewal ritual next March."

That didn't sound like much. Still, it was the Romani way to get the best of any situation, so he said, "My presence is guaranteed. My participation depends on the exact requirements. If I cannot participate, I will find someone acceptable who can."

Rauni studied him shrewdly for a moment. "You have taken a wife?"

"Not yet," G replied. "But soon."

"I will tell the Travelers. I'm sure they will accept your compromise, if necessary."

G nodded to acknowledge that, then addressed the final bit of business between them. "And what do you want, for your service?"

"It is, as always, my pleasure to assist, my lord."

G smiled and kept his tone gentle when he spoke. "Though I respect you, Rauni, we are not friends, or family, that we can overlook such services. What would you like?"

"For myself? Nothing," Rauni said. "I am old, even by wizarding standards, and have all the wealth I could want in children, grandchildren, and my first great-grandchild to be born toward the end of the year."

"You have lived a good life, it seems," G said, watching her like he'd watch a suspect he and Sam were interrogating. "But if there's nothing you want for yourself, is there perhaps something you want for someone else?"

Rauni's sharp eyes met his. "You are clever, my lord."

"Observant," G corrected. "It's part of my job."

After a long moment, Rauni blew out a breath. "Yes, you're correct. I want something for my family."

Suppressing the urge to say, _Name it_, G asked instead, "What do you want?"

After a long moment, Rauni said, "Sanctuary. Sanctuary for Kezia, and for my other grandchildren young and innocent in the ways of the world."

"Under what circumstances?" G asked.

"Should it be asked by me or my children," Rauni said. "I can't see the future of the world, my lord, only individuals. If the world turns darkly, if you promise my grandchildren sanctuary, they will survive."

"They have it," G said, and the magic settled around them both. "Tell me the names of the grandchildren you wish bound by this promise, and I will see them safe - at least, as safe as I can make them."

"That's all I can ask, my lord." Rauni inclined her head. Then she met his gaze evenly. "The Romani stand ready to assist you, however we're needed."

G smiled briefly. "I'm grateful - but the Romani are spies and thieves, not warriors. You've done your part."

Rauni's eyes glittered for a moment, then she inclined her head. "As you will, my lord."

G thanked her again, then stood and left the room. In the main store, he paused and offered Kezia a card. She took it, frowning.

"How to contact me in the non-magical world," G said. "In case you need it."

He accepted her thanks, then left the Gypsy Seer. He had to see a goblin about a fight.


	17. Chapter 17

Once again, Hermione thought with a combination of amusement and frustration, if it hadn't been for Callen's team, none of the spectators attending the third task would've been able to see what was going on during the task.

The Quidditch pitch had been covered with a giant maze, the walls of which were twenty feet high - high enough to effectively obscure whatever might happen once the competitors entered it. Even those spectators sitting in what Harry had once called the "nosebleed seats" wouldn't be able to see more than a small fraction of the maze, let alone the action inside it.

But then, even the cameras wouldn't help much considering night was falling as the spectators gathered.

Hermione mused on the idiocy of wizardkind in general and British wizardkind in particular until she had to shift position to allow Sirius and Alexandra to take their seats on her other side.

She glanced over her shoulder to greet the rest of Harry's family and friends, only to frown when she saw only Michelle and the Hanna children and Callen.

"Where is everyone? I thought they'd want to watch?" she asked.

"They'll see it on the screen," Callen answered and bent forward to speak directly in her ear. "They're getting ready, just in case."

"Oh." And just like that, Hermione's irritation with wizardkind idiots became anger at those same idiots for the situation Harry found himself in and fear for what could happen to Harry because of it.

Callen rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "We've planned for as many contingencies as we can. I won't promise everything will be fine, but I do promise we've done everything we can to stack the deck in our favor."

"That's all anyone can do," Hermione said. "And more than most would think to do."

"With any luck at all," Callen continued, "all of this will be unnecessary. Harry will get through the maze along with the other competitors, and we'll all have a victory celebration at the end."

"Your lips to God's ears," Hermione said, repeating a phrase she'd often heard her parents use.

Callen squeezed her shoulder again and sat back. Hermione heard him talking with Michelle in low tones and chose not to try to listen in. She was worried enough already, without whatever they were talking about added to the mix.

_They could just be talking about mundane things, you know_.

Hermione frowned inwardly at the thought which only served to make her angrier. If Callen and Michelle were talking about silly things, rather than Harry's safety…

Resolutely, she pushed those thoughts away and focused on the screen, which now showed the four competitors approaching the entrance to the maze.

She paid no attention to Ludo Bagman's Amplified voice explaining the current standings and the general outline of the task. Instead, she studied Harry.

On the screen, he stood easily in the same combat fatigues he'd worn for the first task, his expression relaxed and calm - certainly as confident as his fellow competitors - and she smiled encouragingly, though there was no way he could see it from here.

As he was in the lead, Harry entered the maze first. The camera followed him - not far, as he paused just inside the maze entrance to cast several spells. Hermione didn't recognize some of the wand movements, but one looked like a revealing spell of some kind. His spells cast, Harry took off at a dead run.

That run lasted only until the second turn in the maze. Then Harry stopped and, by the position of his hand and the wand on it, cast a Point-Me spell. Then he turned just slightly left of the direction indicated and cast a spell. After a moment, a gap appeared in the hedge. Harry stuck his head through it, looked both ways, and then stepped through the hedge into the next layer of the maze.

Harry cast the spell again, but this time when he looked through the hedge he backed away quickly. The camera shot through the gap and Hermione blanched at the blast-ended skrewt she saw apparently lying in wait for Harry.

But Harry wasn't completely defenseless, either. He dove through the opening, rolled to his feet, and cast, all in one smooth motion.

When the camera turned once again to the skrewt, Hermione almost laughed aloud. Harry had turned it into a rabbit, and it hopped around madly, clearly confused by this change in its condition.

Then Harry was on to the next layer of the hedge.

Alexandra leaned toward Hermione. "What spell is that?"

"Which?" Hermione countered without taking her eyes from the screen. "The one he's using on the maze, or the one he used on the skrewt?"

"On the maze," the older woman replied. "It seems quite useful."

"The gap is only temporary," Hermione said. "It'll close up in a few minutes. The incantation is _partis temporus_."

"Temporary or not - still quite useful for escaping somewhere."

"Mm." Hermione still hadn't looked away from the screen, where Harry had made an opening through the next layer of the maze - only to come face-to-face with a sphinx.

Not for the first time, Hermione wished the camera had sound as well. As it was, she could only imagine the conversation Harry and the sphinx were having. Part of it became clear when he turned back through the hole in the hedge and summoned the skrewt-turned-rabbit. He dropped it in front of the sphinx and Hermione had to look away as vicious claws tore into the poor rabbit.

_Not really a rabbit - a skrewt that could've challenged the sphinx._

_But it's a rabbit _now_, and that's … disgusting._

But Harry was already cutting through the next layer of the maze, and then the next, and then he emerged into an open space that could only be the center of the maze. The camera shifted its angle, and suddenly the Triwizard Cup filled the screen.

The camera shifted back as Harry approached the cup. An acromantula appeared from the far side of the clearing, and Harry repeated the spell to change it into a rabbit.

Harry paused at the cup, and it seemed like everyone in the stadium held their collective breath, waiting for him to grasp the cup and claim the victory he'd earned.

"_Partis temporus_." The incantation came out correctly, despite Harry's lingering amusement at his conversation with the sphinx - or Nebit, as she'd asked him to call her.

After explaining that he didn't want to get past her as much as he did go across the path in front of her, Nebit had allowed that meant he didn't have to answer her question and wouldn't get eaten. It wasn't entirely the same as turning away, but her instructions had only been not to allow anyone _past_ her if they didn't answer her question correctly.

"Shame, though," Nebit concluded. "I'm getting hungry."

"If I had food, I'd give - wait. I can get a rabbit," Harry offered.

Nebit sniffed. "I suppose it'll tide me over until the next one shows up."

So Harry had summoned the skrewt-turned-rabbit and continued on his way. Now he approached the Triwizard Cup and while he supposed he should be thinking thoughts of winning and prize money, he found himself dreading touching the cup.

_If anything bad's going to happen, it's going to happen now._

Which meant it was time for Plan A - or, rather, _Strategy_ A, since there was no guarantee what would happen once he touched the cup. In theory, it was a portkey to take the winner to the judges' platform, but in reality, it could be anything.

So he breathed in and out, a long, slow breath, and then pointed his wand toward the camera, silently casting first a disillusionment spell and then the summoning charm. Camera tucked safely under his wand arm, Harry reached out and grasped the cup with his other hand.

The tug at his navel confirmed it was portkey - but to where?

Hermione watched Harry vanish from the center of the maze. The view on the screen shifted to the judges' platform, where Harry should arrive in just seconds.

He didn't.

Ten seconds passed - twenty - thirty, and Harry still didn't appear.

Fear twisted in her gut, and behind her she heard Callen's muttered, "Dammit."

Then she heard him giving orders. "Sam, he's gone. Get the team ready, I'll be with you in thirty seconds. Sirius -"

"I know," Sirius said. "Protect Alexandra."

Protect Alexandra? But why? Hermione shoved the question down for now, instead jumping to her feet and whirling to face Callen. "I want to help."

"I know," he replied, "but you can't. The team's trained for this, worked together for years. You'd be in the way at best."

Hermione's eyes stung with tears, even as the rational part of her accepted that Callen was right. His eyes softened.

"Help Sirius protect Alexandra," Callen said.

Hermione nodded. "Bring him back."

"We will." Callen couldn't quite manage a reassuring smile, but Hermione took his words as a vow. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, Callen vanished.

"But -" Hermione stared at the spot where he'd stood. "But you can't apparate at Hogwarts."

"You can't apparate _within_ Hogwarts," Sirius corrected. "At least, we can't. Callen probably can. Romani," he added by way of explanation.

Hermione nodded absently. Another question had settled in her mind. "Why are we protecting Alexandra?"

"Because she can't protect herself," came Sirius' eminently reasonable answer.

"Whyever not?" Hermione asked, turning to Alexandra when Sirius didn't reply immediately.

Alexandra leaned close, lowering her voice to say, "Because I'm not a witch."

G appeared beside his team, including Hetty and Griphook, giving them a thorough once-over even as Sam handed him a tac vest. As magicals themselves, he and Sam would take the lead, with Deeks and Kensi, both non-magical, providing tactical support.

Nell and Eric, of course, would coordinate as they always did - not just with G's team this time, but also the goblins who were joining them for this raid.

"Sit rep?" G said as he slipped the tac vest over his head.

"The camera drone is operating normally," Nell said. "We have eyes on Harry."

Kensi adjusted her M24 sniper rifle on her shoulder. "Sam made me a portkey to the roof of the cemetery chapel. I can cover most of the cemetery from there."

G cast a silencing spell on her feet and the rifle, and then a disillusionment spell. "Go."

He heard Kensi murmur, "Whitehead Unitas," and then, presumably, the portkey had taken her.

"Seriously?" G took the moment to look at Sam. "A mathematician and a quarterback?"

Sam shrugged as he readied both his wand and his SIG Sauer pistol. "Nobody ever says those names together by accident."

G grinned, just a little, and turned to the one member of the group he didn't directly command. "Griphook?"

The goblin grinned. "My team is ready, waiting only for my word. We will follow your lead."

"My thanks," G said. Before he could say anything else, Kensi's voice came through his earwig.

"Eyes on Harry," she said. "One man with him, one giant snake slithering around, and one … _thing_."

"What? Thing?" Deeks asked. "What does _thing_ mean?"

G was already looking over Nell's shoulder at the tablet she held. She manipulated the drone until the image showed what Kensi had seen.

Harry appeared to be tied to a gravestone, and the man with him was moving a cauldron onto a fire. Off to the side was a small pile of cloth that looked about the size of a baby.

"Is that - a baby?" Deeks asked.

"Don't know," Sam said. "How do you want to play this, G?"

"As long as he's not going to sacrifice Harry, let it play out," G ordered. "If he tries to hurt Harry -"

"Right." Kensi acknowledged grimly.

"Sam?" G asked.

"Portkey ready."

"Good. Eric, have you narrowed down the ritual?"

"Resurrection ritual," Eric said promptly, then winced. "But you knew that. It looks like the bone, blood, and flesh ritual, and that pile of cloth is whatever body is currently housing Voldemort's soul."

G hid his distaste at the description of one of the vilest spells known. "All right. Silencing charms on everyone's weapons and feet."

Griphook sniffed. "Every human's feet, you mean."

"My apologies," G said automatically. Then, when the charms had been cast. "Let's go."

Sam held out a tactical flashlight large enough to serve as a club if necessary - and therefore large enough for G, Sam, Deeks, and Griphook to get a hand on it.

Eric, Nell, and Hetty took a step back. No experience or evidence suggested it was possible to get caught up in a portkey's backwash, for lack of a better term, but nobody on G's team was stupid enough to take the chance.

"Bring our son home, Mr. Callen," Hetty said.

G met her gaze and nodded once.

Sam needed no other urging. "Gauss Blanda," he said, and the portkey took them.


	18. Chapter 18

The portkey deposited Harry in what looked to be a cemetery.

He barely had time to think, _Callen's people were right, then_, before he heard a shouted, "_Stupefy!_" and collapsed into unconsciousness.

Harry woke to find himself tied to something hard, flat, and cool at his back. A tombstone, probably, since this was a cemetery.

Though he was awake, he didn't move. The ruse might not work for long, but any time it did work could give him valuable information.

Shuffling footsteps reached him, and a pair of feet nearly completely obscured by a black cloak came within his limited range of vision. A hand grabbed his head and pulled it up. Another hand - presumably the mate of the first one - shoved a length of black cloth into Harry's mouth, and he was released.

He let his head fall forward, alternately amused and outraged. _They can't even bother to tie the gag in place? What kind of kidnapper is he?_

One that was preoccupied with something else, apparently, judging by the wheezy sound of the man's breathing. Listening more closely, Harry thought the man might be forcing something heavy along the ground.

Then a slight slithering sound made him jerk his head upward - _so much for pretending to be unconscious_, he berated himself - only to see a gigantic snake circling the headstone and the grave where he was tied.

Now that the pretense of being unconscious had ended, Harry took in other details - the stone cauldron full of something liquid sloshing against its sides the cloaked man was maneuvering it into position at the foot of the grave where Harry was tied; the bundle of … something … robes, probably, on the ground nearby; a glint of light from far away that _might_ be reflected from a rifle scope.

But it might not, and Harry couldn't let himself be distracted by the thought, because the bundle was _moving_. No, something inside it was moving, possibly trying to free itself.

Finally, the cauldron was in place, and the cloaked man lit a fire beneath it with his wand. The snake slithered away from the crackling flames, and whatever liquid was in the cauldron seemed to heat very quickly, bubbling and sending out fiery sparks.

Whatever was beneath the bundle of fabric seemed to grow frantic. _"Hurry!"_ came a high, cold voice.

_Idiot,_ Harry thought. _Potions and rituals - two things that should never, _ever_ be hurried._

He started to work at the cloth in his mouth. He might be able to spit it out before whatever ritual was completed.

The entire surface of the liquid in the cauldron sparkled like diamonds.

"It is ready, Master," the robed man said.

_"Now…"_

The robed man bent over the bundle, pulling the fabric away to reveal what was inside it, and for a moment Harry thought he'd be vomiting up enough to dislodge the gag. Or possibly choke himself to death.

Inside the bundle was something that might have been a crouching child - if said child were hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs were stickly, spindly, and its flat, snakelike face held gleaming red eyes.

It raised bony arms and the robed man picked it up and put it into the cauldron. The liquid inside hissed and bubbled for a moment.

The robed man closed his eyes, raised his wand in a shaking hand and spoke in a voice equally shaky.

_"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"_

The surface of the grave at Harry's feet cracked open and a fine trickle of dust rose from it and the robed man waved it into the cauldron. The liquid inside broke and hissed and turned a poisonous shade of blue.

Harry started working the bit of cloth in his mouth - maybe he could dislodge it enough to shout a spell.

The robed man pulled a long, silver dagger from somewhere in his robe and moonlight danced off the blade as it shook in his hand.

_"Flesh - of the s-servant -"_ the man's voice broke on a sob, _"w-willingly given - you w-will - revive - your m-m-master."_

He stretched his right hand out in front of him - the hand that was missing a finger - and grasped the dagger tightly in his left hand.

Harry finally managed to spit the cloth out of his mouth. "Wait!" he cried, his voice raspy and his throat dry. "You don't have to do this!"

The man turned to Harry, and the hood of his cloak fell back to reveal a balding, pointy-nosed man whose expression screamed pure terror.

"I m-must," he said in a squeaky voice that didn't seem nearly as ominous as it had moments ago. "I m-must revive my m-master."

"You call that _thing_ in the cauldron your master?" Harry's voice got stronger as he spoke the question.

"The Dark Lord is powerful," the man said. "I m-must obey."

"No," Harry said earnestly. "You don't -"

But the man brought the dagger up in a flash of silver, and his right hand fell to the ground.

The man screamed at the pain, but mustered his resolve to pick up his severed hand and drop it into the cauldron.

The liquid inside burned a bright, painful red.

Then the man was approaching him, dagger at the ready.

Every instinct Harry had screamed at him to kick, to struggle somehow, but the man had been really good with his incarceration charms, and even if he hadn't been, Harry suspected that any protest would just make the man stun him before continuing with his assigned task.

Still, Harry made one more attempt. "Please don't do this."

"I have to, Harry." That he'd found a steady voice wasn't nearly as surprising as that he'd recognized Harry.

"How do you know me?" Harry asked.

"Everyone knows Harry Potter." But the man raised his dagger.

_"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."_

The dagger pierced his arm, and Harry hissed as warm blood spilled from the wound.

The stadium had that had erupted in cheers when Harry touched the Triwizard Cup had gone unnaturally silent as the events afterward played out on the screen.

"What's he doing?" Hermione whispered. Beside her, Alexandra shook her head, frowning deeply.

"A ritual," Sirius answered equally quietly from Alexandra's other side. "A very dark resurrection ritual."

"Resurrection? Who -" Hermione broke off. "You don't think it's -"

"Voldemort," Sirius answered. "Unlikely to be anyone else."

"Where are Callen and the others?" Hermione asked. "Why aren't they stopping this?"

"Full explanation later," Sirius replied, not taking his eyes from the screen. "But we discussed it, all of us, and agreed to let it play out - _Goddammit!_"

The sudden exclamation made both Hermione and Alexandra jump.

"What is it, Sirius?" Alexandra asked.

"The man on the screen, the one in the robe performing the ritual - that's _Peter Pettigrew_."

Hermione sucked in a breath. She knew the name, of course - everyone in the magical world did - but after Sirius's trial, she'd assumed that Pettigrew had fled the country, rather than risk being found and, very likely, executed for his crimes. Apparently, she'd been wrong.

Then Pettigrew cut Harry's arm open, collected some of Harry's blood, and poured it into the cauldron.

"They're still letting this _play out_?" Hermione demanded. "He hurt Harry!"

"Yes," Sirius snapped. "Callen and his team are already on site. He'll make the call."

"Not soon enough," Hermione muttered, and turned her attention back to the screen, both wishing for sound and thankful the video feed didn't have it.

Harry hadn't expected being kidnapped and used in a dark resurrection ritual to be boring, but it was.

Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron, the man who'd performed the ritual had taken the robes from the ground and robed his master. After briefly - and pointlessly, Harry thought - explaining where they were, Voldemort touched an odd red tattoo on the other man's arm. When Voldemort released the man's arm, the tattoo had turned jet black.

Only minutes later, the air was filled with the sound of cloaks swishing as men appeared, apparating into every shadowy place in the graveyard, and there were many of those places. Voldemort greeted them, and then … then Voldemort launched into a long, rambling diatribe about the faithlessness of his followers that wouldn't have been out of place in a nineteenth-century melodrama.

Which meant Harry had nothing to do but sit and listen - or at least pretend to listen - until the lizard-like man actually did something that required a response, whether from Harry himself or from Callen's team, who should be nearby, if all of their plans - not to mention the transmitter inserted in Harry's ankle - fell into place.

Voldemort could give Professor Binns a run for his money in the boring lecture department, Harry thought, memory flashing back to the ghost who'd taught History of Magic during Harry's few months at Hogwarts - and still did, according to Hermione's letters - as Voldemort talked. And talked. And talked some more.

It wouldn't do to actually fall asleep while Voldemort was talking, though. Unlike Professor Binns, who'd simply ignore a sleeping student, there was no telling what Voldemort might do to a sleeping Harry.

So Harry listened, at least a little, while he counted the assembled men, and memorized each of their locations. Those locations wouldn't remain fixed if an actual battle broke out, but knowing where they were to start, as well as their number, wasn't a bad thing. When he'd done that, he reviewed the handful of spells Sam had taught him to cast without a wand.

But then Voldemort turned and was approaching Harry, and Harry's attention returned fully to the abomination before him.

"And here he is," Voldemort said, "the boy you all believed had been my downfall…."

He raised his wand, pointed it at Harry. "_Crucio!_"

Pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced lit up his nerves, as though his very bones were on fire, and his eyes rolled in his head.

G led Sam, Deeks, and Griphook through the cemetery - silently, thanks to the charms on their feet - trusting Nell's guidance through his earbud to get them to Harry as quickly as possible.

He slowed as three figures came into view. He cast a silent vision-enhancing spell on himself and his human companions and turned back to the sight before him.

One of the figures - the one bound to a headstone - was clearly Harry. One of them seemed to be in considerable pain, clutching his arm to his chest. And the third -

The third was a man with lizard-like skin and no nose.

"Are you getting all this?" he murmured.

"Every bit," Nell's voice came through his earbud. "Everybody saw what just happened to Harry - and from the screams, I think they know who that is."

"Voldemort," Hetty said firmly. "And the one with him - Peter Pettigrew, according to Sirius."

He glanced at Griphook. "My apologies - I thought this would be a fight."

Griphook snorted. "Only three? That's not even a bother."

G grinned, but before G could say anything, a swarm of figures in dark robes and masks apparated into the cemetery, forming a loose circle facing Voldemort.

Sam snorted. "Very Klan-like."

G had to agree - but if these were Death Eaters, Voldemort's followers from before, he'd expect nothing less from the cowards they were. G estimated somewhere between two and three dozen of them - shadows in the graveyard made it hard to be certain, even with his enhanced vision.

"Mm." Griphook sounded mildly interested. "That's looking like a bit of bother. I'll call my brothers."

"Wait -" Deeks said suddenly. "Is Voldemort - monologuing?"

Eric's snort came through G's earbud. "He'd make a lousy evil overlord. Hasn't even read the list."

G was about to ask Griphook how long before his brothers arrived, but before he could even open his mouth to speak, a band of goblins appeared silently behind them.

G nodded a quick greeting and as he readied his weapon, a shout rang out that chilled him.

"_Crucio!_"


	19. Chapter 19

Pain.

It may have been worse pain than Harry had ever felt before, but Harry knew pain. Before Callen and Hetty had come into his life, pain had been his constant companion for a long time.

He'd never let pain stop him before - he wasn't allowed to let pain stop him at the Dursleys', unless a bone was broken - and he wouldn't let pain stop him now.

With luck, Callen and the others had arrived, but he couldn't wait any longer and risk Voldemort killing him outright. He had to fight back, so he welcomed the pain of the Cruciatus curse, let it make his senses a little sharper, used it to forge his intent into three words he directed at the thing Voldemort had become.

"_Langlock. Amputo. Diffindo._"

The first spell stuck Voldemort's tongue to the roof of his mouth. The second removed Voldemort's fingers. The third -

Voldemort dodged so the Cutting Curse meant to cut him in half only took off his non-wand arm.

Voldemort's mouth worked, but thanks to Harry's spell, he could only make odd growling noises.

In the moments before the Death Eaters could rally, Harry aimed a second Cutting Curse at the ropes that bound him, and they fell free.

Harry was casting again even as he dodged away from the stone and cauldron. "_Accio_ my wand and Voldemort's wand."

The two wands sailed into his hands, and in the same moment, a Death Eater's head exploded. Harry started, but relaxed as the realization hit him. _Kensi. The team's here._

"Stand down by order of Her Majesty!" Callen's voice boomed across the graveyard without any spell to enhance it.

A hail of curses whizzing past Harry confirmed that the Death Eaters weren't about to stand down. Harry dodged behind the nearest gravestone, chain-casting Blasting Curses as he moved.

That was his last coherent memory, as a battle-cry sounded from somewhere off to his right and then a swarm of - goblins? Harry risked a second glance to confirm that yes, those were goblins in full battle gear, complete with deadly-looking swords - descended, and the magical fight quickly turned into a melee.

Behind the goblins, but only just, came Callen, Sam, and Deeks, all in tac vests with weapons and in Sam's case, wand, at the ready.

Callen made it to a spot beside Harry, enlarging the headstone where Harry hid. "You okay?"

Callen's presence gave Harry hope, but he knew better than to let his guard down until the fight was over. "Cruciatus Curse."

Callen's expression turned stony as he relayed that information to his team and stood to return fire.

Harry took a moment to snap Voldemort's wand before he, too, struggled to his feet and started casting - finger amputations and sticking tongues to roofs of mouths, every spell intended to disable his opponents so they could be captured, questioned, and tried for their crimes.

The Death Eaters, however, were casting to kill - whether with the Killing Curse or well-aimed Cutting Curses. Callen, his team, and the goblins shot, cast, and struck back in kind, though without the use of any of the Unforgiveables.

Then again, Harry mused as a Death Eater's body jerked with impact, a sniper's bullet was just as effective as the Killing Curse.

He lost track of the fight after that, focusing on protecting the man who had become his father as much as he did on protecting himself.

Finally, he heard the shouts.

"Clear!" from Sam.

"Clear," Deeks agreed.

The goblins didn't respond verbally, but the clang of pommels on shields was answer enough.

"Clear," Callen said finally, and started giving orders about securing the Death Eaters who were still alive and making sure to unmask all of them where the drone camera could record their faces. With Callen in charge, Harry allowed himself to relax, to give himself over to the effects of the Cruciatus Curse.

He sank more than collapsed to the ground, but it was a near thing, and he leaned against the headstone, his muscles micro-spasming from the curse and his entire body shaking from shock and the injuries he'd taken during the fight.

The only treatment for the Cruciatus was time and rest. The fight was over. He could rest now. Harry's eyes drifted closed - but only for a few heartbeats.

"Harry." Callen's voice sounded far away and easy to ignore, so Harry did.

"Harry." The voice came more firmly this time and was accompanied by a gentle shake to his shoulder.

"Don' wanna," Harry mumbled, his eyes still closed.

"You have to, Harry," Callen said. "I wish you didn't, but you have to."

"Haveta what?"

"Finish it."

Callen's tone as much as his words caught Harry's attention and pulled his focus back to the world around him. He took a few breaths, more for the emotional comfort they provided than for any physical benefit, and forced his eyes open. Callen squatted before him, one hand still on Harry's shoulder, his expression grave.

"F-f inish what?" Harry asked.

"Voldemort," Callen said succinctly. "The prophecy."

"You d-don't b-believe in p-p-prophecy," Harry said.

"No," Callen agreed, "but others do. You're finishing this for _them_, not me."

_They don't matter._

"Yes, they do," Callen said, informing Harry that he'd said that aloud. "Not to you or me or Nell or Hetty personally, but to the rest of the world. The rest of the world has to know that Voldemort's dead by your hand, or else sympathizers will be trying to bring him back, and nobody needs that kind of chaos."

Even with the Cruciatus making his thoughts spasm as much as his body, Harry knew Callen was right. He tried to stand, willing his twitching muscles to move, and finally pulling himself up using the headstone and Callen's outstretched hand for leverage.

With Callen's assistance, Harry stumbled the few yards to where Voldemort lay, his mouth working though all Harry could make out were incoherent shouts. Apparently, none of Voldemort's followers had hit him with a counter-spell or an Ending Charm.

_He needs better minions._

"He needs better a lot of things," Callen said, confirming that Harry had once again spoken aloud without realizing it. "Starting with a soul."

Harry raised his wand - which, somehow, he still held - to finish the fight, forever, only to see that his hand shook so much he couldn't hold the wand steady. He frowned and focused the same will that had allowed him to rally enough to cast without a wand … and his hand still shook.

Maybe the effects of the Cruciatus Curse built up? Or maybe he was still in the after-effects of and adrenaline high and crash? He tightened his grip on his wand, but it simply shook harder.

Callen's hand covered his own. "You can't use that in your condition."

Harry nodded - or maybe it was a spasm from the curse - and Callen gently removed his wand from his shaking hand. A moment later, Harry's wand was secure in its holster.

"B-b-but -" Harry began, stopping when Callen slipped something else into his hand.

Callen's SIG.

In the scheme of things, the SIG didn't weigh much, but it weighed more than Harry's wand, and was easier to hold onto. His hand still shook, but the barrel of the gun didn't waver even half as much as his wand had.

_I can do this._

"I wish you didn't have to," Callen murmured.

Harry nodded - or thought he did - took a breath, let it out slowly, and pulled the trigger. Twice.


	20. Chapter 20

Hermione had screamed along with the rest of the spectators when the _thing_ that wasn't quite a man came out of the cauldron, then fallen silent, her hands rising unconsciously to her mouth, when dozens of masked and robed Death Eaters apparated into the cemetery.

The whispers shouldn't have surprised her, but they did. _"Is that - You-Know-Who?"_ and _"The Dark Lord!"_ and others, but no one spoke his name: Voldemort.

Voldemort was back - at least, the people around her believed he was back - and still Callen's team didn't attack.

Hermione was grateful the feed didn't have sound - Harry's reaction alone made it clear that Voldemort had cast some kind of pain-causing spell. She wouldn't be surprised if it was the Cruciatus, but she was selfishly, shamefully, glad that she couldn't hear Harry's screams.

Then the attack came, spells and weapons firing in a manner that looked wild but was, at least on Callen's side, planned and precise.

Then a mass of bodies hurtled through the image - _Goblins? Why are _goblins _fighting beside Callen's team?_ \- and the image on the screen became so chaotic that she couldn't follow it at all.

When the dust finally settled - not that spellfire caused much dust compared to firearms - Callen's team was largely unhurt, and all of the Death Eaters were on the ground or had their hands up in the universal signal of surrender.

And then …

Then …

Then Harry stepped forward, accepted a gun from Callen, and shot the _thing_ that had come out of the cauldron.

Hermione knew what Callen's and Sam's jobs were, that they were law enforcement officers and sometimes their jobs required them to kill. She knew that Harry attended a magical and military school, where among other things, he'd be taught to kill in defense of his country. She understood that, or thought she had.

But she'd just watched Harry murder someone, something, who was helpless on the ground.

But _was_ it murder? Was it _murder_ when that thing had already tortured Harry, and was surrounded by Death Eaters - she recognized the masks from her outside readings on the history of the magical world - who supported that torture and whatever else might have followed if Callen's team hadn't been there?

Shouts drew Hermione from her musings, and she looked to the screen to see that someone was unmasking the Death Eaters one by one, their faces, more than ten times life size, illuminated on the screen for all to see.

The shouts were disbelieving - _"Impossible!"_ and _"This must be faked!"_ and _"I don't believe it!"_ \- but underneath the disbelief, Hermione sensed a weary, resigned acceptance. She felt that same way when Lucius Malfoy's face was revealed.

"Preposterous!" That shout echoed across the Quidditch pitch and the maze with such force that Hermione suspected an Amplifying Charm, though she didn't recognize the voice.

The final face was revealed, and the crowd settled uneasily while they watched Sam administer some kind of field healing to Harry while Kensi and Deeks bound the surviving Death Eaters with what looked like magic-inhibiting handcuffs.

Callen's apparently friendly exchange with the goblins drew a few murmurs of surprise, and then the goblins apparated away.

After a few minutes of apparent conversation between Callen's team and Harry, Sam and Callen dragged the thing that might have been Voldemort closer to Harry. Callen knelt between Harry and the body, placing one hand on each, and then the three of them apparated …

… only to reappear on the judges' platform.

The champions' boxes were closest to the platform so that the victor's family and friends could join him, and Hermione was halfway out of her seat to rush to Harry's side when Callen's Amplified voice sat her right back down.

"Any Aurors on site?"

A woman's Amplified voice returned, "Ten of us, Callen. Joining you now."

Hermione saw Callen's grin. "I have a portkey for you. The rest of my team are keeping the prisoners quiet."

Then the Aurors were climbing the steps to the platform, and Hermione knew better than to interrupt now, so she strained to see Harry, to see if he was all right, as if she knew anything about what _all right_ might mean in this moment.

Harry was on the platform floor, leaning against one of the posts supporting the canopy over it, his eyes closed, though his body seemed to tremble a little sometimes. Hermione allowed herself to relax, just a little.

Keeping one eye on Harry, Hermione listened to Callen - without the Amplify charm, though his voice carried to her in the cool night air - give the Aurors a brief report on what to expect once they arrived at their destination, as if they hadn't seen everything on the screen just like she had.

_Harry will be okay_, she told herself over and over. _He'll be okay. He has to be._

Just as Callen was giving the Aurors the activation phrase for the portkey, another voice rang out.

"Aurors! Arrest them!"

Hermione jerked around to see a portly man wearing a pinstriped cloak - and, of all things, a lime green bowler hat - hurrying toward the platform.

The Auror Callen had been speaking to - a square-jawed woman wearing a monocle - turned to the man as he heaved himself up the stairs.

"Arrest whom for what, Minister?" she asked evenly, and Hermione blinked.

This was Cornelius Fudge? Why had the Minister for Magic attended the final task of a silly inter-school competition? Hermione shoved the questions aside to focus on the platform.

"Them!" The Minister pointed at Callen and Harry. "For murder!"

"No!" Hermione shouted, and hers wasn't the only voice raised in protest.

"You watched it, all of you!" Fudge shouted. "They killed dozens of respectable members of society!"

"Is _this_ a respectable member of society?" Callen asked, nudging Voldemort's body with his boot.

Fudge - _Minister_ Fudge, Hermione corrected herself - sniffed. "I don't know what _that_ is - but I recognize Lucius Malfoy, and Fergal Avery, and David Crabbe, Edward Nott - all prominent citizens. All dead - by your hand!"

"And every one of them had come at that _thing's_ call," the woman replied. "They answered a call and helped that _thing_, as you put it, torture that young man there - in case you haven't realized, that's Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."

"H-hate th-that name." Harry's voice was just loud enough for Hermione to make it out. The minister and the Aurors didn't hear, or they paid it no mind.

"We have no proof of that!" Fudge shouted. "There was no audio on that - that -"

"We don't need audio to see the effects of the Cruciatus Curse," the Auror replied, her tone stiff. "Some of us remember seeing it quite clearly during the Blood War."

That slowed the minister down for a moment, but only a moment. "Those effects can be faked, Madam Bones. Arrest them, by order of the Minister of Magic, or I'll have your job!"

"You will not."

The command, spoken in a feminine voice that brooked no argument, came from beside Hermione, and she turned to stare at Alexandra. The woman had risen from her seat, a determined expression on her face.

"You will not, Minister," she said again. "Madam Bones, you and your Aurors will work with Mr. Callen to capture and detain the terrorists who attacked Harry Potter."

Hermione returned her attention to the spluttering minister. "Who are you to give _me_ orders? I'm the Minister of Magic, and -!"

"_For_, Mr. Fudge," Alexandra replied. "You are the Minister _for_ Magic, not _of_ Magic, and you may be assured we will be discussing that further. As to who I am - I am Elizabeth, second of that name, by the grace of Magic your Queen."

Hermione felt certain her eyes were as wide as her mouth as she watched a glamour fall away from slender, young Alexandra to reveal a more mature woman in a bright purple dress and coat that just matched the cap in the crown on her head.

Hermione recognized her, of course - probably everyone in the world with a telly would recognize her - and she fought the urge to curtsy. Only Sirius' murmured "_Protego_" brought her back to the present, her curiosity burning.

Why would Sirius feel the need to protect his queen? Who would -?

Hermione scanned the people on the platform, and then around the stands. Most everyone was in shock at the revelation. Some were already dropping into curtsies or bows. A few -

A few looked angry, perhaps even ready to kill, and that surprised her more than Alexandra's - Her Majesty's - revelation had.

Her wand slipped into her hand. She wasn't certain what she, a fourth-year Hogwarts student, could do that Sirius or Callen couldn't, but she was a subject of Her Majesty, and she would defend her Queen as best she could, or die in the attempt.

The minister's snort cut through her sudden tension. "You think I'll let a Muggle tell me what to do?"

A gasp echoed through the stands, but Her Majesty looked unruffled - the result of a lifetime in the public eye, Hermione decided.

"I don't have to think it, Mr. Fudge," the Queen replied. "I know it. You are - for now - the Minister for Magic, serving at my pleasure." Minister Fudge started to speak, but she held up a hand. "I know, you'll talk about elections and such, and that is true, to an extent. However, in these moments, you have acted unconscionably -"

"_Avada -_"

Hermione didn't know who'd started to cast that dreadful spell - she knew only that Sirius' shield wouldn't protect Her Majesty from it. In a moment, she had transfigured the seats around them into six-foot-tall block walls.

The walls shook, and bits of masonry tumbled, but they held.

"Good work," Sirius said, and Hermione flushed even as she cast spells to reinforce the walls.

For a few minutes, spellfire and shouting surrounded them, and then Callen's voice rang out.

"All clear, Sirius - everything's copacetic."

"Copacetic?" Hermione repeated. "Who uses words like that?"

Sirius was already in the process of re-transfiguring the walls she'd erected. "We do - when we need a code word."

That made a strange kind of sense, Hermione decided, adding her spells to Sirius'. A minute or two later, the walls were down and she could see the victors' platform once again.

In addition to Harry, still lying semi-conscious against the table, three other people lay on the platform, though they were all apparently stunned and bound by a Binding Spell. Minister Fudge, however, stood gaping at the scene, unable to do much more than breathe.

"Thank you for your quick actions, Mr. Black, Ms. Granger," Her Majesty said. "And to you and your team, Mr. Callen, for securing the scene so quickly. I believe you were giving the … Aurors … instructions before this spot of bother?"

Quickly, Callen finished those instructions, and the Aurors apparated away. While he did that, Her Majesty asked Sirius to escort her to the platform, and Hermione fell back into her seat.

_I met the Queen. I helped _save_ the Queen. Mum and Dad are never going to believe this._

"Now," the Queen said as she faced Fudge - _Minister - or maybe not anymore?_ \- on the platform, "we have things to discuss. Perhaps your office?" Fudge managed a nod, and the Queen turned to Sirius. "My apologies for keeping you from your godson, Mr. Black, but I require your services as magical escort just a little longer."

"Of course, Ma'am," Sirius said. He looked at Fudge. "I'll have Her Majesty to your office in ten minutes. I'm sure you won't keep her waiting."

That seemed to shake Fudge from his stupor. "N- no, of course not. Your Majesty."

He apparated away as well, and with a glance at the Queen, Sirius crossed to Harry, knelt beside him, and leaned forward to whisper something that Hermione couldn't catch, even as she made her way to the platform.

Then Sirius and the Queen were gone, and she found herself staring at Callen with only one question on her mind.

"What really happened out there?"


	21. Chapter 21

The next few days became a blur for G.

Between getting Harry settled at St. Mungo's and arranging for operational psychologist and mind healer Nate Getz to counsel Harry, coordinating with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to ensure all the Death Eaters were properly identified, arrested and charged, and trading shifts with Sirius and Sam as Her Majesty's magical bodyguard, G's time was fairly well accounted for. He could only be thankful that Hetty was handling the press so that he didn't have to.

So the summons, however nicely phrased it was, from Albus Dumbledore came as a very unwelcome intrusion into G's duties.

Still, there was no need to start the meeting in a bad mood - even if he was fairly certain he'd end it in a bad mood. His meetings with Albus Dumbledore usually ended that way, after all.

So he apparated just outside the wards at Hogwarts - starting the meeting politely might help it stay civil a bit longer - and not long after found himself facing the gargoyle that guarded access to Dumbledore's office.

"G Callen to see the Headmaster at his invitation," G told it, and it obediently swung aside.

G found Dumbledore in his office, dressed in pale blue robes with bright orange phoenixes flying across them. Occasionally, one of the birds burst into flame and re-formed as a chick.

Ignoring the assault on his eyes, G said, "You asked for a meeting, Headmaster?"

"I wished to inquire after young Harry's health," Dumbledore said. "How is he?"

"Recovering," G said easily enough. "The healers want to keep him a few days, just to make sure there's no hidden damage beneath the effects of the Cruciatus."

Dumbledore blinked. "Is that common?"

"It's not uncommon," G said. "About one in nine cases. If it weren't for that, he'd already be discharged and impatient to get home."

"I'm very pleased to hear that," Dumbledore said. "And it leads rather neatly into one of the other matters I wished to discuss."

_First sign of a bad mood in the making._ "And what would that be?"

"Are you certain Harry should remain with you?" The question came without accusation, or at least the accusation was disguised as mere interest.

The apparent lack of accusation allowed G to answer civilly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Dumbledore hesitated, apparently searching for words. Finally, he said, "Perhaps living with a murderer isn't the best environment for the boy to grow up in."

G's eyes narrowed and he called on all his undercover training to keep his anger from showing otherwise. "Two points. First, he's not a _boy_ anymore. He's a young man, well on his way to adulthood. And second, I didn't murder anyone."

Dumbledore gave him a kindly look and spoke gently. "Dozens of bodies in a cemetery at Little Hangleton would seem to suggest otherwise."

G held back a snort. "Didn't you learn the difference between murder and killing during your long career? I admit to killing those men, but only after they attacked us. That's not murder in any legal sense."

"They could have repented and gone on to lead good lives."

"They've already had two chances to repent," G pointed out. "How many are they supposed to get?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Two?"

"Two," G repeated, wondering how the man could be so blissfully blind. "First, they could've refused Voldemort's call. Second, they could've surrendered when I ordered them to stand down. They chose their actions and suffered the consequences. "

"Those consequences mean they'll never have another chance to repent."

G blew out a breath. "You never answered my question. How many chances am I supposed to give them? More to the point, how many are you willing to let die in the meantime?"

"Forgiveness is strength," Dumbledore declared as though it were a Papal pronouncement. "It is a mark of the strong."

"And the living," G pointed out in as dry a tone as he could summon." The dead can't forgive. Or do much of anything else. I'd rather have Death Eaters dead than, say, children attending Hogwarts."

"Nonetheless, I believe it is in Harry's best interest to return to Britain - without you."

G had to admit being impressed by the man's genial façade, despite the stubborn streak beneath it. Still, he could be stubborn, too - especially when his family was involved. He smiled thinly. "You're too corrupt for me to even consider that."

Dumbledore's eyes widened in apparently honest shock. "You think I'm corrupt?"

"You think you're not?" G shot back. "Power tends to corrupt, as Lord Acton said, and you're a powerful man." Dumbledore appeared too shocked to speak, so G continued, "But it's not just you I meant - I meant the entire country. Or at least its magical ruling class - especially when it comes to Harry."

Dumbledore cleared his throat before saying, "I admit there have been a few problems, but surely you can't think anyone means to harm Harry?"

G had always heard, and usually believed, that there are no stupid questions besides the one you don't ask. Dumbledore's question tested that belief.

"I don't have to think it," G said as patiently as if he were talking to a small child. "I know it, because they already have - starting from when he was a baby."

Dumbledore started to speak, but G cut him off with a sharp gesture. "And I'm not even talking about the Death Eaters we just fought, or whoever entered Harry into a deadly tournament in the first place. I mean from the very day his parents died. Magical Britain - or certain people in power in Magical Britain, if you want to nitpick - stole the Potters' home in Godric's Hollow, the home that rightly belonged to Harry."

"It was felt that a memorial would be appropriate -"

"Felt by whom?" G asked. "And who decided that stealing from Harry was the way to fund it?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Stealing is a rather harsh term."

"Harsh, but accurate. You can call it eminent domain, if you want, but we had the Potters' estates audited. Neither the estate nor Harry himself received any compensation for that taking. They haven't received any percentage of whatever income might have been derived from that memorial - admission fees and the like - either. I'd call that corruption."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it -"

G continued, not allowing the man wiggle room, "And then, far worse, the Potters' wills were never probated. Their express instructions for the guardianship of their son were ignored, and Harry was placed with people who abused him verbally and physically. I'd call that corruption - if not criminal child neglect."

Dumbledore's face flushed, though whether with shame or anger, G couldn't tell. "See here -"

"I'm not interested in your justifications, explanations, or excuses," G said. "You wanted to know why I think Magical Britain is corrupt, so I'm telling you. The worst offense, as far as I'm concerned, is that Harry was completely cut off from his birthright - not just the people who loved him and would have cared for him, but also the knowledge of the magical world itself and his place in it."

"Surely you see that his place is exactly why it was best that he grow up as normally as possible," Dumbledore said. "Rather than awash in fame and celebrity before he could even talk - for something that he wouldn't remember. That would be enough to turn anyone's head."

"That sets up a false dichotomy and begs the question, best _for whom_?" G pointed out. "But even if it were best for Harry, no one in Magical Britain had the legal _right_ to do what they did after James and Lily Potter died. That speaks to corruption on a level I can barely imagine. No, Dumbledore - we will not let Harry live in Magical Britain."

"But -" Dumbledore protested, "the prophecy -"

The bad mood had arrived in full force, and G blew out a breath. "It has been fulfilled three times. How many more do you want?"

That appeared to set Dumbledore back on his heels, judging by the puzzled frown he wore now. "Three?"

The question made G pause and review what he knew. Then he said, "You have a point, it might just be twice, as no one knows what happened the night James and Lily Potter died. Besides that night, there was the incident during Harry's time here - when Voldemort possessed Quirrell and Harry defeated him, and last night in the cemetery."

Dumbledore sat forward in his chair. "That is true, all of it. But you must understand - Voldemort will return."

That caught G's attention. "You sound certain of that."

"Quite certain."

"How?" When Dumbledore didn't answer immediately G sighed. "You do realize that Her Majesty has plenary power in Magical Britain - and that Hetty is a friend of hers? Answer the question here, in private, or find yourself answering all kinds of questions in a public trial."

Dumbledore blinked, somewhat owlishly. "Trial? For what?"

"That corruption we were just talking about," G answered easily. "In your case, for your active participation in the events after the Potters died. Whatever the outcome of the trial, I'm certain the tabloid media will have the time of their lives reporting it."

Dumbledore paled and blurted, "Horcruxes."

That was the last thing G had expected him to say. "What?"

"Horcruxes. They're objects in which -"

"I know what they are. Why do you bring them up now?"

"I believe Voldemort made several of them."

_Huh. Interesting. _"How many?"

Dumbledore slumped back in his chair: "Five. Perhaps more, but at least five."

G blinked. Again. A third time. "You do realize that's impossible, right?"

"I assure you," Dumbledore said earnestly, "Voldemort is a powerful wizard, perfectly capable of creating a horcrux."

"Right," G said by way of agreement. "_A_ horcrux. Singular. Not more than that. Or haven't you read John Dee's _Principia Magicae_?"

"In fact, I have. Dee said there's no limit to the number of horcruxes that could be made."

G smiled just a little. "He said there's no _theoretical _limit. But there is a _practical_ limit, even if Dee left the determination of that to the theologians."

Dumbledore raised a sardonic eyebrow. "You think you know better than he did?"

"Not at all," G replied. "But my partner is a mathlete, and we discussed what the practical limit might be once, after we had to destroy one before … well, that part's classified. The point is - what happens when a horcrux is created?"

"Part of the creator's soul is sheared off and stored in an object."

"Leaving the creator with half a soul, and therefore only half as powerful as he had been before."

"That assumes the part that is sheared off is half," Dumbledore pointed out. "It could be less."

"Fair enough," G said, "but for the sake of argument, let's assume it's half. The creator decides to make another, so he splits his remaining half-soul in half, leaving him with a quarter of his original soul in his body, and a quarter in an object. Further horcruxes would mean an eighth of a soul, a sixteenth, and so on."

"Your point, Mr. Callen?" Dumbledore tried not to sound or look impatient, and G gave him credit for the effort.

"At some point, the size of the soul, either the sheared-off piece or the creator's remaining piece, is too small to do anything. I don't know exactly - maybe nobody does - but I'm fairly certain that a thirty-second of a soul isn't powerful enough to do much, even if it is somehow restored to a body."

Dumbledore waved that aside, instead giving G his most earnest look. "I believe he made Harry into a horcrux."

G couldn't help it. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more.

"Horcruxes are no laughing matter, Mr. Callen." Dumbledore packed a warehouse of offense and disappointment into those few words, which only made G want to laugh harder.

Finally, he sobered. "No, they're not. The idea that Harry is or was one, though - that's funny as hell."

"Not when the only way to remove it from him is to kill him," Dumbledore said gravely. "To destroy a horcrux, the object containing it must be destroyed, or nearly so."

"Harry's scar was not a horcrux," G told him. "It was a dark curse of some kind, yes, but not a horcrux."

"Can you be certain of that? He should be examined -"

G cut him off before he could suggest just _who_ should examine Harry. "The healers and shamans who examined Harry in the States are certain. They're also certain that the exorcism cleansed Harry of whatever influence it might have had. And, really? That's probably the least persuasive argument you could've made, either for horcruxes or for Harry to live in Britain."

"You are interfering in matters you do not understand!" Dumbledore shouted, apparently at the end of his patience.

That was okay - G was at the end of his patience, too, and his bad mood was in full force and effect.

"And youare trying my patience," G snapped. "Rather than speculate about horcruxes Voldemort may or may not have made, rather than manipulate a child into fighting for people who've betrayed him at every turn, you'd be better served tightening the security here at Hogwarts. Or don't you care about the safety of _any_ children?"

"Of course I care! How dare you insinuate otherwise?" Dumbledore looked highly offended, perhaps even on the edge of angry.

"A troll loose in the castle. Taking an ancient, priceless artifact that you knew would draw not only Voldemort's spirit but anyone else with an inclination toward immortality and putting it into a school full of children. Failing to secure the Goblet of Fire against underage entrants - not just Harry, mind you, but anybody clever enough to surpass your Age Line. Do I have to go on? Because I've barely scratched the surface."

"It was all for the greater good!"

"If that's what you have to tell yourself to sleep at night." G drew a breath. As much as he wanted to curse the man stupid, he was supposed to be the good guy in this melodrama.

Not to mention, he was supposed to be setting an example for Harry - who would be getting out of St. Mungo's today.

That last thought settled him, and he regarded the man before him steadily.

"My team and my family will be returning to the States. As Harry's guardian, and acting on Her Majesty's instructions, I am ordering you never to have contact with Harry Potter again until he is legally of age."

"You can't -!"

"I damned well can, and I am. If you want to speak to Harry, to see him, to interact with him in _any_ way, you'll contact Hetty, Nell, or me. Is that clear?"

"Young man, I -"

"Is that clear, or will I be informing Her Majesty that you refused her order?" G allowed himself a grin. "I understand Fudge is being held in Azkaban at Her Majesty's pleasure. I'm sure he'd appreciate some company."

Dumbledore simply stared at him, almost slack-jawed. G wondered whether it was at the threat itself or just the fact that someone stood up to him. In either case, he turned toward the door. Harry would be chomping at the bit to get out of St. Mungo's, and then they had an errand to run.


	22. Chapter 22

When G arrived, Nell was sitting on a bench outside the door to Harry's room at St. Mungo's. She looked, frankly, as exhausted as G felt, though she was trying to cover that by focusing on the tablet in her hands.

"How is he?" G asked when he was close enough.

Nell almost dropped the tablet she'd been studying. After a moment to collect herself, she set the tablet aside and flung her arms around him. His came around her in return, and for long moments, they simply held each other.

Finally, Nell said, "Nate's with him."

"How's that going?"

"No idea, but given that he's a lot like you …"

"Probably not well," G finished.

"I doubt he'll be as bad as you are."

G couldn't help snorting. "You might be surprised - our childhoods were too alike."

Nell finally stepped back, though G kept one arm around her as much for his own comfort as for hers as they sat together on the bench.

"How are things with the Queen?" Nell asked.

"She's conducting a _most thorough examination of my magical government,_ as she put it. Interim Minister for Magic Augusta Longbottom is only to happy to assist in the task." G shook his head. "Between the two of them, I doubt anyone will survive unscathed. I'm expecting a full reorganization of the Ministry of Magic. Maybe more."

"More?" Nell asked. "What more could there be?"

"Hetty's meeting with her today," G said, "to talk about magical incident response teams - groups kind of like us, to handle threats from magicals in the non-magical world."

"Wow."

"Mm." G lost track of how long they sat with each other. Eventually, the door to Harry's room opened and Nate Getz stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

"Callen." Nate offered his hand and G rose to shake it.

"Thanks for coming so quickly," G said. "How is he?"

"Moody. Withdrawn," Nate replied. "Grieving - all of which is to be expected. He doesn't talk about it much, but he does talk about other things. It's a start, and I'm confident he'll adjust."

"Eventually," Nell said.

"Eventually," Nate agreed. "He might talk to you more than he does me."

"We'll listen," Nell said immediately.

G smiled at that but offered Nate a sober nod. Of them all, Harry was most likely to talk to him, and of course G would listen.

"Physically," Nate continued, "he's almost normal. He has a few lingering effects from the Cruciatus, but those should fade in the next week or so."

"He can be discharged, then?" Nell asked.

Nate nodded. "I'll make sure the staff knows I've cleared him."

"Thanks again, Nate," G murmured as the other man walked away. Then he turned to Nell. "I'll take care of getting Harry out of here, if you want?"

Nell gave him a wry look. "Because you think he'll talk to you more than he will me. Right."

"And because I want to confirm that godforsaken prophecy orb is dark, and you're not cleared to access the Department of Mysteries."

"See you back at the hotel, then?" Nell asked.

G sighed. "Calling Brown's a _hotel_ is like calling a car a skateboard. It's way too fancy to be just a hotel."

"It could be worse," Nell said. "She could have gone for the Savoy."

G couldn't suppress a shudder, and Nell quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Sometimes, it's hard to believe she's Romani," he said before bending to kiss her. "We should be there by teatime."

Then she was gone and G was striding into Harry's room.

Harry's room was currently charmed to a light teal color that, G had been told, was supposed to encourage healing. The two visitor chairs were a darker shade of that same teal. Bright sunshine appeared to stream through the windows, though G knew the day outside to be overcast.

Harry reclined on the bed, his eyes closed, looking pale and smaller than G remembered. G almost hated to disturb him, but if it were him in that bed, G would want to get out of it as soon as possible, so he said softly, "Harry?"

"'M awake," Harry replied without opening his eyes.

G crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. "Harry."

"I said I'm awake."

"Open your eyes and prove it." G kept his tone mild, and after a moment, Harry half-glared up at him.

"Happy now?" Harry asked.

"No," G answered, and that clearly startled the younger man. "I'm not happy at all."

"What's wrong? Is someone hurt? Nell? Hetty?"

"Everyone's fine, as far as I know," G said. "I meant, I'm not happy with what I asked you to do in the cemetery."

"I understand," Harry said. "You and Sam explained it was the lesser of two evils."

"But the lesser of two evils is still evil," G said. "I'm sorrier than I can ever say that you had to do that - that I had to ask you to kill a man."

Harry drew a shuddery breath. "It would've happened eventually, wouldn't it? I mean, I've been thinking of joining the Navy."

"Maybe, maybe not," G replied. "A lot of people serve their entire careers without combat - on the ground, in the water, or in the air."

"But I accepted the possibility," Harry said. "So I don't have any right to complain, do I?"

"Of course you do," G said, and smiled at Harry's startled expression. "You have the _right_ to do anything you want, as long as you don't hurt anyone else or break any laws. That doesn't mean you'd be correct, or that anyone will agree with you, but you have the right to."

Harry huffed. "You know you sounded like Hetty just then."

G laughed. "I'd apologize, but I take it as a compliment."

Silence fell between them, and G took the opportunity to study Harry more closely. Harry's eyes sparkled, just a little, and a hint of color had come back to his cheeks. G counted it a win.

"So," he said. "Want to get out of here?"

"Yes, _please_."

G chuckled. "Get yourself dressed, then. We have one stop to make, and then it's off to Brown's for tea."

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet. "And then home?"

"Not until tomorrow. There's still the award of the Triwizard cup."

"Bugger."

Harry wanted to believe the Unspeakable who met him and Callen at the Hall of Prophecy was the same one they'd encountered before, but there was no way to know for certain.

Thon led them once more to row 97, and Harry breathed a quiet, relieved sigh when he saw that the prophecy orb concerning him and Voldemort was dark.

Callen either heard the sigh or felt the same, because his hand landed on Harry's shoulder and squeezed.

"What happens to the orb now?" Harry asked.

"We keep it on file for study," the Unspeakable replied.

"If it's fulfilled and only the people it's about can retrieve it," Callen said, "what could you possibly study?"

"Many things," thon replied, and something about the answer set all of Harry's instincts to high alert. A glance at Callen told him the other man had a similar response.

The thought of leaving the prophecy - fulfilled or not, dark orb or not - freely available for anyone to examine however they might actually do that did not sit well. But what other choice was there? What other options did he have?

A tendril of an idea occurred to him, and he reached for the orb.

"It's dark," Callen said.

"I know," Harry said. "I just want to make sure either one of us touching it wouldn't - I don't know - reactivate it somehow."

"That's not how prophecy orbs function," the Unspeakable began, but Harry already had the orb in his palm.

Thankfully, it remained dark, and Harry let out another relieved breath.

Then he turned his hand and let the orb fall to shatter on the floor.

"You've destroyed our prophecy." The Unspeakable sounded stunned.

"That prophecy destroyed my life," Harry replied. "I think that's a fair trade, don't you?"

"If you don't," Callen said, "take it up with the ICW. C'mon, Harry - you know how Hetty gets when we're late to tea."


	23. Chapter 23

For most people, Hermione thought, being in the Great Hall at Hogwarts at the same time as the Queen would be a highlight of their day, at least. It would be something to write home about, something to tell one's children and grandchildren about and remember in one's dotage.

Seeing her standing on the platform with the Tournament organizers and flanked by Sirius and Sam Hanna as bodyguards would be the closest that most people would ever come to Her Majesty.

Hermione, though, had sat beside the Queen at all three Triwizard tasks, and liked to think she was beyond being awed by the royal presence.

That belief lasted until Her Majesty took a step forward, effectively silencing the room before she even spoke a word. When the Queen did speak, however, her voice came clear.

"It gives us great pleasure to present the Triwizard Cup to this tournament's champion, Harry Potter. Mr. Potter, please come forward."

Hermione clapped enthusiastically, smiling so widely her cheeks hurt, as Harry crossed the Great Hall to approach the platform. Beside her, Neville smiled just as widely but clapped in a more dignified manner.

Then there was Callen, his team and family - Hetty, Nell, Eric, Kensi, Deeks, and Michelle Hanna and her children. Nine people made almost as much noise as the rest of Hogwarts combined.

Harry ignored them all as he bowed to the Queen.

"I had the distinct pleasure of watching you compete in all of the tasks, Mr. Potter," she said. "Despite the irregularity of your entry in the Tournament, you displayed great courage, wit, and grace under fire. Please accept the Triwizard Cup as a token of our appreciation for your efforts."

She offered him the cup, and if he hesitated before taking it, Hermione couldn't blame him. Still, Harry took the cup, bowed once again to Her Majesty, then turned to face the crowd and raised it above his head.

Hermione was certain her ears would ring for days after the students erupted in cheers.

On the platform, Harry spoke to the Queen and the other organizers briefly, and Ludo Bagman passed him a pouch - presumably the prize money.

When the crowd had quieted somewhat, Dumbledore came forward. "Thank you, Your Majesty. If you'll kindly be seated, we can all tuck in."

"My apologies, Headmaster," the Queen said, "but some business remains before we can enjoy this most excellent feast."

Dumbledore looked momentarily flummoxed, but recovered quickly and, with a slight bow, retreated to his former position.

Her Majesty smiled briefly at Harry, who still stood on the platform, the Triwizard cup still in one hand, before surveying the assembled students. Hermione found herself sitting just a little bit straighter as the Queen's gaze fell on her.

Then the Queen was speaking, and Hermione gave her full attention to the speech - despite Ron Weasley's grumbling _sotto voce_ about dinner being delayed.

Her Majesty's words, however, were the last she had expected to hear. "Will Miss Hermione Granger please join us?"

Hermione was so shocked by the request that for long moments, she couldn't move. It took Neville on her left and Ginny Weasley on her right to urge her to her feet. She made her way to the platform at the front of the room as though in a daze, only halfway noticing when Harry came forward to offer her a hand up the steps to the dais.

When Hermione had curtsied before the Queen, Her Majesty spoke again. "Some of you may not be aware that at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, a number of rogue individuals attacked their sovereign. The only one foolish enough to do so with the Killing Curse, one Peregrine Parkinson, remains in custody awaiting trial for his actions."

A low murmur ran through the students, and Hermione had to stop herself from checking the Slytherin table to see whether Pansy Parkinson even remained in school.

"That he did not succeed," the Queen continued, "is due to the efforts of Sirius Black and Hermione Granger. As Mr. Black was engaged to be my protective escort in the magical world, his actions fell under his remit and therefore may not be rewarded further. Miss Granger, however, acted of her own volition and at risk to herself when she transfigured shields around us. Peregrine Parkinson's Killing Curse impacted one of those shields, and therefore was blocked from striking us."

The murmur that ran through the students was noticeably louder this time, and Hermione risked a glance at Harry. He was smiling broadly, and oddly that made her relax just slightly. Whatever was coming couldn't be that bad.

"It had been my intention to award Miss Granger the Order of Merlin for her actions that day," the Queen continued, and Hermione's throat constricted at the thought of being awarded the Wizarding World's highest honor. "But it was explained to me that Miss Granger is born of non-magical parents, and no such witch or wizard has ever received the Order of Merlin before and, further, no one was certain that the Order of Merlin could be given to one so born."

Her Majesty's voice had taken on a more severe note with those final words. "I have tasked the Ministry with researching this matter, and perhaps at a later date I may award Miss Granger the honor she so rightly deserves. In the meantime, I cannot let her actions go unrecognized." The Queen focused specifically on Hermione as she continued, "Therefore, as part of the traditional Queen's Birthday Honours, I name you Hermione, Baroness Pemberley, with all the rights and privileges thereto appertaining."

Hermione was certain her mouth hung slackly open as she stared at the Queen. A life peerage? At fifteen? How on earth would she explain this to Mum and Dad?

Then Harry was beside her.

"Breathe, Hermione," he said quietly. "Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Good. Now, curtsy to Her Majesty…"

_Curtsy?_ _Oh, right._ Hermione curtsied and murmured, "Thank you, Ma'am."

"It is I who should thank you," the Queen said. "For most engaging conversation, as well as your actions at the end of the tournament. I expect greater things from you in the future."

_No pressure._ It was a testament to her will, Hermione decided, that she didn't speak those words aloud. Instead, she curtsied once again and, following Sam's gesture, moved to stand beside Harry.

As she turned to face the students, many of them began to applaud - Neville Longbottom most of all, but others weren't far behind. She felt her cheeks heating, and looked away from the crowd, back toward the Queen, who spoke once again.

"There is one other person whose actions merit recognition tonight," she said. "Come forward, Harry Potter."

Harry moved away from Hermione, and she wondered idly where the Triwizard cup had got off to, as he wasn't carrying it anymore. But she focused on Harry, who took his position where she had been standing just moments before and bowed.

"Fortunately," the Queen said, "Mr. Potter's award is not complicated by an accident of birth. For your actions in ending the threat of the Dark Lord known as Voldemort, it gives me great pleasure to award you the Order of Merlin, first class."

She turned slightly to her left, and Sirius Black stepped forward with a slim, hinged case in his hands. He opened the case and from where Hermione stood, she could _just_ see a hint of green and the glint of gold.

Her Majesty took the ribbon from the case and held it so the gold medallion gleamed in the light. "Henry James Potter," she said, "it gives me great pleasure to award you the Order of Merlin, first class."

Harry bowed again, then turned to face the students so the Queen could fasten the award around his neck. She stood back, and the applause began.

Where for Hermione the applause had been polite at best, now it was completely raucous. She had to smile at Harry's obvious embarrassment - at least until he turned to her and offered her his hand. She took it and stepped forward to stand at his side.

Finally, the applause died down enough that Dumbledore once more stepped forward. "Again - many thanks, Your Majesty. If you'll allow me …?"

Hermione frowned at the Headmaster's presumption - one did not simply order the Queen to do anything - but then realized that it was, however badly, a request rather than an order. Still somewhat unorthodox, Hermione thought, but at least forgivable.

If the rumors she'd heard from Neville were true and Her Majesty was going to be taking a more active role in the Wizarding World, a class in royal etiquette would not be amiss. Or, Hermione amended, a class in Muggle etiquette in general to supplement the Muggle Studies class.

She was jarred from her thoughts when Harry nudged her shoulder. "Are you very hungry, or would you come for a walk with me?"

"Of course I'll come for a walk with you, Harry."

Minutes later, they were outside in the cool evening air heading toward the Black Lake. Harry didn't seem inclined to break the silence, and they were halfway around the lake before Hermione could bring herself to do so.

"You're going back to the States tonight?"

"Tomorrow," Harry said. "Her Majesty wants to have brunch with Hetty, me, Callen, and Nell before we go back."

"Brunch with the Queen? Harry, that's a great honor!"

Harry shrugged. "I suppose so - but the way Hetty talks about her, it feels more like meeting an old friend. Not that I'd ever call Her Majesty old…"

"Of course not." Hermione bit back a smile.

"I had an ulterior motive when I asked you to take a walk," Harry said after a moment.

"I don't mind kissing you in front of everyone in the Great Hall," Hermione said, hoping she wasn't blushing as badly as she feared.

"Oh - uh -" Harry _was_ blushing that badly. "That's - that's good to know. For future reference, I mean. But I - I didn't want everyone to see when I gave you this."

He held out his hand, on which rested the pouch the Queen had given him.

"Harry -" Hermione breathed. "Is that -? What _is_ that?"

"The prize money," Harry answered simply. "I want you to have it."

"But - but that's a thousand galleons," Hermione protested. "That's a lot of money - five thousand pounds!"

Harry smiled. "It's more than that, Hermione."

She blinked. "What?"

"A lot more, actually." Harry's grin widened, and Hermione frowned.

"That makes no sense."

"Sure it does - you just have to think creatively."

"Harry," Hermione said, exasperated, "_what_ are you talking about?"

Harry's grin couldn't possibly be any wider, she thought. "Okay, I'll walk you through it. What are galleons made of?"

"Gold."

"And how much is gold worth?"

Hermione hated to say the words, hated to admit, "I - don't know."

"At the moment, around eleven hundred pounds per ounce," Harry said.

"Per - ounce?" Hermione repeated. Then she got it. "That's brilliant! Buy galleons for a few pounds, then sell them to a precious metals dealer. Of course, you'd have to deface them a bit, Statute of Secrecy and all that, but gold's a soft metal, so that's easy …"

Then the rest of it hit her.

"Harry - you're giving me _a million pounds_?"

"More or less," Harry agreed, "depending on exactly how many ounces of gold are in a galleon and the price of gold on any given day."

"Harry." Hermione's mind seemed to have turned to cotton wool. "Harry -"

Harry smiled again. "Hermione."

"Harry -" Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can't accept this. It's too much!"

"It's not just for you," Harry said. "It's for your family, to help you move to America. I know your parents are well off, but an international move isn't exactly cheap."

"But -" Hermione broke off, considering. Harry was right that her parents were well off - reasonably so, at least - and he was also right that the international move wouldn't come cheaply.

Her parents had been saving for it, preparing for it, for a couple of years, and there was another year or more before they'd actually move, and they'd told her they were on track for covering all the expenses…

But even after her parents qualified as American dentists, there was no way to know how long it would take them to find a position or build their own practice. The extra money - and how strange to think of a million pounds as _extra money_ \- would offer a layer of financial security they didn't currently have. But …

"It's still a lot of money," she said.

Harry ducked his head, looking up at her with an expression of … embarrassment? "I have a lot more."

"… what?"

Harry straightened. "I have a lot more. My grandfather was a potion master, and he created a few potions that made a lot of money, including Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, Skele-gro, and the Pepper-Up Potion. And then he sold the company for quite a lot."

"I - see," Hermione said, processing what Harry had just told her.

"I'm not saying a thousand galleons is nothing," Harry said quickly. "But there was at least that much in my school trust vault when I started Hogwarts."

Hermione could only stare at him, words failing her for the first time in a very long time - so long, in fact, that Harry cleared his throat.

"Is that a problem?" he asked quietly, and Hermione shook her head.

"That you're rich as well as brave and rakishly handsome?" she asked, as seriously as she knew how.

"Well - yes," Harry said nervously.

At the abject misery in his expression, she took pity on him much sooner than she'd intended. "That's as far from a problem as it could be."

"Really?" His expression changed to one of cautious hope.

"Really," Hermione assured him, and stepped close to lose herself in his kiss.

It was a thorough kiss, full of passion and promise, and when it finally ended, Hermione was grinning broadly.

"What?" Harry asked.

"You get to explain the galleons to Mum and Dad."


	24. Chapter 24

_Two months later_

The owl who delivered the letter wore a medallion with a crest that Albus didn't recognize - a unicorn rampant bearing a blue flag with a white X and a lion rampant bearing a white flag with a red cross on either side of a shield - and that vexed him. That the crest was repeated on the envelope itself was more vexing, because it meant he had no idea who was sending him mail. The last time he hadn't known the sender simply by the envelope was … was … he couldn't remember. He did, however, appreciate the motto at the base of the crest: _Nemo me impune lacessit._ No one provokes me with impunity.

But the most vexing about the letter sitting on his desk were the compulsion charms on it, triggered to activate when he opened the letter. Not that the charms were _there_ so much as that he _couldn't remove them_.

It had been three-quarters of a century since he'd come across a compulsion charm he couldn't remove, and that one had taken an entire coven to place. This one, however, had been placed by a single individual - an individual whose magic Albus didn't recognize.

It was at best a puzzle and at worst a trap, Albus concluded. Especially after the term had begun once again, he was in no mood for and had no time for either a puzzle or a trap, so he set the letter aside and continued to the next task awaiting him.

By the end of the day, Albus had almost forgotten the vexing letter. Surely, it couldn't be that important… it could wait until the morrow.

The next morning, he arrived at his desk to find it covered in copies of the same letter. Whoever had sent them must desperately want to control him… but he was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and he would not be controlled.

With a wave of his wand, he sent the envelopes to a far shelf, where they stacked themselves as neatly as they could.

Fawkes trilled a low, inquiring note.

"No, Fawkes," Albus told him. "I'm not in the least curious who's trying to control me."

Fawkes's response was a bass note of sadness and - grief? Surely Albus was misinterpreting that. Even after decades with Fawkes, he still hadn't learned all of the phoenix's moods.

Shortly after lunch, the door to his office opened - without his being aware he had a visitor. He looked up with a frown, wondering why the protections on his office had failed, and then could only stare at the two people before him: Sirius Black and Amelia Bones.

He recovered quickly, of course, and smiled genially. "Sirius. Amelia. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Amelia didn't smile. "This isn't a pleasure visit, Albus. We're here to deliver this."

She placed an envelope on his desk, and when he saw it clearly, Albus couldn't hide his shock. It was identical to the ones that had been arriving over the last few days. He looked back at Amelia, affecting his most disappointed expression.

"I am sorry to see that you're participating in such a base tactic, Amelia. Compulsion charms, really." He huffed dramatically, but neither of their expressions changed.

"I'm sorry to see that you believe you can ignore the Queen," Amelia retorted.

"The - Queen?" Albus looked more closely at the crest, only now seeing that yes, the shield was topped with a crowned red lion.

"That's the Royal Arms," Sirius said helpfully. "Used only by the Queen herself - the Scottish version, of course. Perhaps you would've recognized the motto on the version for the United Kingdom - _Dieu et mon Droit._"

"God and my right," Albus murmured.

"Would you care to explain why you chose to ignore a summons from Her Majesty?" Amelia asked.

"I didn't recognize the seal. And there are compulsion charms that I couldn't remove," Albus said. "Surely you don't expect me to blindly open a letter with such a strong compulsion charm on it when I don't recognize the sender?"

"When it comes from the Queen - yes, I bloody well do," Amelia said. "You'll come with us, Albus - now. You've already kept Her Majesty waiting."

Just over ten minutes later, Albus found himself being escorted through Buckingham Palace in London, Sirius and Amelia to either side of him, and a servant of some sort leading the way. They paused outside a closed door, and Amelia turned to him.

"You'll need to surrender your wand," she said.

Albus drew himself up to his full height. "I have never been asked to surrender my wand before. I will not."

"You will," Amelia said, "because you're not permitted to bring a weapon into Her Majesty's presence. Surrender your wand."

Albus hesitated. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do know that I won't ask again," Amelia said, narrowing her eyes, and Albus almost - _almost_ \- flinched from the determination in her expression.

"Very well." He let his wand slip from its holster and into his hand. Reversing it so the tip pointed toward him, he offered it to Amelia.

She took it with a nod, then looked over his shoulder toward -

A frisson of magic swept over him, and he turned to Sirius with a frown - only to find Sirius frowning back, looking more angry than Albus would have thought possible.

"Perhaps Amelia wasn't clear," he said in a tone colder than a Highland winter. "You are not permitted _any_ wand or weapon in the Queen's presence. Surrender your backup wand - or be stunned and have it taken from you. The choice is yours."

Albus swallowed at the expression in Sirius' eyes. With great reluctance, he drew and handed over the Elder Wand. Would the wand still work for him when it was returned? Or had it transferred its allegiance to Sirius Black?

Another frisson of magic swept over him, and finally Amelia nodded to their escort, who stepped forward and opened the doors.

"Albus Dumbledore, Your Majesty," he said and stepped aside to allow Albus to enter, still escorted by Sirius and Amelia.

The room he entered seemed more like a sitting room than an office, with conversational groupings of chairs around low tables, a piano in one corner adorned with framed photographs, and in the far corner, a small writing desk, at which Her Majesty sat apparently penning a note to someone.

Albus wasn't used to being kept waiting. He usually kept others waiting, and it was quite irksome that some Muggle, queen or not, made him wait like … like … a _commoner_. It took all his self-restraint to stand without fidgeting until she signed her name and turned in her seat to face him.

"As it appears you value your time more highly than mine," she began, "I shall make this brief. Due to your callous disregard for the safety and welfare of your students, you are hereby removed from your position as Headmaster of Hogwarts."

Albus found himself staring at the woman, his mouth rapidly drying thanks to hanging rather widely open. He closed his mouth and swallowed.

"The Hogwarts Board of Governors appoints the headmaster," he said.

Her expression didn't change. "That you do not know the meaning of _plenary power_ simply supports my decision. But if it eases your mind, most of the Board are receiving similar dismissals."

Albus took a breath. "I do know the meaning of the term, Your Majesty - I was simply caught by surprise. I assure you, I have the greatest concern for my students. Their welfare and safety are my top priorities."

"That would be why you placed a fifteen-month-old child on a doorstep on a November night," Her Majesty said, the lack of sarcasm in her tone making the words even more damning. "And why you then placed an object of immense value in a school behind security so simply designed that eleven-year-old children could get past it - in an attempt to lure a terrorist into the castle for unknown reasons. No, Mr. Dumbledore, I do not believe you have any concern for your students."

"Everything I have done," Albus said, "I did for the greater good."

Her Majesty's lips thinned. "Who are you to determine the greater good? Or, perhaps, what special magic do you have that allows you to divine the _greater good_ infallibly?"

"I -" he cleared his throat and began again. "There is never a perfect answer in this world, and the consequences of our actions are always so complex that predicting the future is a difficult business. So I make no claims of infallibility."

"And yet, knowing you are not infallible, you proceeded to manipulate events you had no business meddling with, rather than following the law you were sworn to uphold."

"I held no such position at the time," Albus protested.

"Which only makes your actions more reprehensible," Her Majesty replied. "And it is with great reluctance that I have limited myself to removing you from Hogwarts."

"Your Majesty, I -"

She held up a hand, and he fell silent. "I have no wish to hear your justifications, Mr. Dumbledore, nor any protests of innocence or requests for mercy. My judgment stands. With one proviso."

Albus swallowed, his gut twisting uncomfortably. "Proviso, Your Majesty?"

"I will ask you to swear an Unbreakable Vow regarding Henry James Potter. If you do so, it will be as I have said. If you do not, I will have no choice but to place you in custody for Mr. Potter's safety and protection."

Albus swallowed again, the knowledge that Cornelius Fudge was in Azkaban at Her Majesty's pleasure coming to the forefront of his mind. While in theory that meant Fudge could be released at any time, in practice it had often meant imprisonment until the prisoner died. He had no desire to share Fudge's fate. "What are the contents of the Unbreakable Vow?"

At a gesture from the Queen, Amelia Bones came forward and offered him a parchment, which he read quickly.

_Will you refrain from contacting Henry James Potter, also known as Harry Potter and the Boy Who Lived, personally in any manner?_

_Will you refrain from asking, manipulating, controlling, coercing, or otherwise influencing anyone else to contact Henry James Potter on your behalf?_

_Will you refrain from manipulating, controlling, or otherwise influencing Henry James Potter, his life, or his choices in life?_

A refusal was on the tip of Albus's tongue - how could he be expected never to contact Harry if Voldemort returned, as he surely would, despite Agent Callen's dismissal of horcruxes? But then he remembered Callen's instructions to contact him, Hetty Lange, or Nell Jones if he ever needed to contact Harry. That avenue was still open to him, despite the Vow.

Another fleeting thought of Fudge in Azkaban decided him. Except, "Can the words _knowingly or willingly_ be added to the third question? An honest mistake shouldn't cost me my life."

Her Majesty appeared to consider that. "That seems a reasonable request to me. Madam Bones? Mr. Black?"

After a few moments of thought, Amelia nodded. "Seems reasonable."

"I agree," Sirius added, and offered his right hand.

"Now…? Yes, of course. Now." Albus clasped Sirius's hand in his own, and Amelia led him through the oaths.

Albus nearly stumbled from the strength of the Vow but managed to hold himself erect at the last moment.

"Thank you, Mr. Dumbledore," the Queen said. "I trust that if we meet again, it will be under better circumstances."

"That is my most fervent wish, Your Majesty," Albus said. He certainly wouldn't wish to meet again under worse circumstances.

She rose, and Albus was surprised to find she was almost a foot shorter than he was. "I thank you for your service to my realm," she said. "I hope you find this enlightening reading."

Albus started as Sirius held out a book. He took it and turned it so he could read the title. _God in the Dock_, by C.S. Lewis.

He wasn't familiar with the book or the author, but manners compelled him to say, "I'm sure I shall, Your Majesty."

Before long, they were outside Buckingham Palace. Amelia returned his wands to him, then she and Sirius were gone, blending into the throngs of tourists gathered to stare at the Queen's residence.

He wasn't certain, but as they walked away, he thought he heard them talking about America … and Miss Granger? What a strange juxtaposition of subject matter.

Somewhat bemused, Albus made his way to the Leaky Cauldron, and a table in the back, his mind spinning with what had just happened. He'd been headmaster at Hogwarts nearly thirty years, and an instructor there even longer, but no longer. He'd have to return to gather his personal effects and bid farewell to the school that had been his shelter and his life's work.

But that was for tomorrow. Or the day after. Right now, he ordered a dram of Ogden's finest, and

opened the book the Queen had given him, only now noticing that a passage had been marked. Albus shifted the book closer to the light and read,

_Of all the tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their own conscience._

Each word struck him with the force of a Bludgeoning Curse. Did the Queen think he been such a tyrant? How was that possible?

Surely, he'd never tormented anyone for their own good, only the greater good … but was there any material difference between the two in this instance?

He suspected he would be pondering that for decades to come.

Harry was almost bouncing with excitement as he waited with Aiden Hanna outside the International Portkey Arrival Point at Los Angeles International Airport. He and Aiden didn't have badges that would let them into the secure arrival area like Callen and Sam, so they were forced to wait here while their respective fathers went to meet the new arrivals.

And they were arrivals, Harry thought happily, not just visitors. Hermione had gotten accepted at a private magical/muggle high school, and once Hetty had made it clear that Hermione was free to stay with her at the Dovecote while she attended school, the Doctors Granger had agreed to allow her to move to the States before them. That Sirius, too, was relocating to the States and had offered to escort her made their decision even easier.

Their arrivals were the best birthday gift Harry could ask for, even if it was nearly a month after his birthday.

Beside him, Aiden laughed. "You're about to jump out of your skin. It's just Sirius and Hermione."

"Not _just_ either of them," Harry replied, consciously stilling himself. "Sirius is my godfather, and Hermione -" he broke off, ducking his head.

"Is your girlfriend," Aiden replied with a grin. "I know."

"That's just it, Aiden," Harry said quietly. "I think Hermione's more than my girlfriend. I think she's _it_ for me. The one."

Aiden stared at him long enough that Harry felt his cheeks starting to heat. Then he blew out a breath. "I'm your friend, you know that, right?"

Harry blinked, surprised by that question. "Of course. My best friend."

"Then you know I have to point out that you're just fifteen."

"So?"

"So - that's a little young to be declaring anyone's _the one_ for you, isn't it?"

"Not for a Potter." Sirius's voice came from behind them, and Harry realized belatedly that they'd gotten so engrossed in their conversation their situational awareness had dwindled to near zero.

"Sirius." Harry stepped forward to hug him, and his godfather's arms came around him.

"Hello, pup," Sirius said softly. Then his voice changed when he spoke again. "Harry's dad - his biological dad James - knew Lily was the one for him almost before they exchanged a dozen words. And James' dad Fleamont was the same with Euphemia. It seems to happen like that for Potters - Potter men, at least."

Aiden stared at Sirius for a moment, then laughed and shook his head and looked back at Harry. "That sounds weird, but - I hope it's true. For both of you."

"Thanks," Harry said and pulled back from Sirius's hug to crane his neck around the taller man. "Where's Hermione?"

"Delayed at Customs," Sirius said, and there was a definite tinge of amusement in his tone. "They don't seem to believe that she has a dimensional store stuffed full of books and nothing else. I'm pretty sure they're checking it for weapons and controlled substances."

Then the door to Customs opened again and his future was running toward him.

Harry caught Hermione and held her against him. "Welcome to the United States."

"For good this time," she replied.

"For good," he agreed and sealed that promise with a kiss.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

And so the second story in this crossover 'verse comes to an end. I have no idea whether there'll be another (my Muse has been whispering, but no more than that), but I greatly appreciate your sharing the story with me. Thank you for your reviews and comments - they mean a lot.


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